




* 


!{ 

I 


I 


1 

I 

i 

I 

f 


I 

( 


> 


THE DRIFT OF PINIONS. 


Printed by 

Williams, Lea & Co., Ltd., 
Clifton House, 
Worship Street, E.C. 2. 


THE DRIFT ^ ^ 

^ OF PINIONS 

By ROBERT KEABLE, 

Author of “A City of the Dawn," etc. 


Not where the wheeling systems darken, 

And our benumbed conceiving soars ! — 

The drift of pinions, would we hearken, 

Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. 

Francis Thompson. 



NEW YORK: 

E. P. DUTTON & CO. 




Note. — For leave to reprint such of these as have 
appeared in “The Treasury” I have to thank the 
Editor of that Magazine. 


Olft 

Publisbei 
SEP 9 1920 


.»> *■ »» 2 









r 


DEDICATION. 


My dear Stephanie, 

It seems years ago since you, among 
the first, were good enough to like my stories, and, 
still better, that great subject with which most of 
them had to do. Do you remember how I would 
sit on the buffet by the side of the big fire, and how 
you would lose yourself in the depths of the great 
chair opposite ? Others there were, but I think you 
understood the best of all, although you said so little 
while the firelight flickered on your hair. Most of 
the stories of this book I did not know then ; but 
indeed I think “ the drift of pinions ” against my door 
has grown with the years, and that therefore you will 
like these at least as well. At any rate, I offer them 
to you, in very grateful remembrance (but with a 
little wistfulness) of the days that come not again. 

But this alone will not quite content jmu. I 
remember, if you do not, that you would always 
lean forward at the close of a story and say ; “Is 
it really true ? ” And you will be sure to want to 
know that same about my stories now. 

I can content you : I would not dare to play with 
the “ traffic of Jacob’s ladder.” I have no use for 
stories that are not true of that wonderful land to 
which it leads — especially in these days, when all of 
us have such interests there. But you mus* forgive 


me if I have very thoroughly disguised my stories, 
and, in their own interest, dared to set them in frames 
of my own that seem best to show them up. Tell 
your friends not to try to guess identities ! Camouflage, 
you know, is well learnt here. 

So read idly, shall we say. Sit back in your chair 
by the fire this winter, and try to forget for a little 
that there is hell let loose on earth. Trust me : I 
tell you that I know, that the land that is very far 
off is very near, and that the King may be seen there 
m His Beauty. You will believe it, Stephanie ? 

Ever yours, 

R. K. 


B.E.F., France. 

In the Octave of the Angels, 1917. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. PAGE 


I. 

In No Strange Land 



9 

II, 

Our Lady’s Pain 



23 

III. 

The Call .... 



38 

IV. 

Jonathan Haynes . 



49 

V. 

Cattle Money , 



58 

VI. 

Father Francis 



68 

VII. 

The Penitence of Peter 



78 

VIII. 

The Kingdom 



88 

IX. 

Black Magic 



98 

X. 

St. Michael Archangel 



107 

XI. 

The Iron Bracelet 



118 

XII. 

“So AS BY Fire” 



127 

XIII. 

Stefano .... 



136 

XIV. 

Judas .... 



151 

XV. 

The Midnight Mass 



162 

XVI. 

The Acts of the Holy Apostles 


172 




IN NO STRANGE LAND 9 


CHAPTER I 
In No Strange Land 

“ No ; I don’t see exactly what you mean,” said 
the little lady, a trifle impatiently perhaps. “ I can 
believe you’re not avoiding a straight issue, because 
I know you, but I’m certain other people might call 
it an attempt to do so. You’ve no right to change 
every outward circumstance in a story and then call 
it true. If an angel appeared to a Mosuto in this 
garden, you’ve no right to tell, on that account, as 
a ‘ true ’ story, how Gabriel appeared to a Frenchman 
in the trenches. The mentality of the Mosuto has 
a distinct bearing on the likelihood of the event ; 
and so might the environment of the trenches, and 
the imminence of sudden death, affect the judgment 
of a Frenchman.” 

The ugly-looking man in the wicker chair, sitting 
next her under the mimosa, looked up thoughtfully 
and gazed at her a minute before replying. Then 
he leant forward to pick a fallen leaf out of his tea- 
cup which stood on the little table between them, 
and spoke as he did it. 

“ Yes,” he said, ” you’re right in a way. At least 
I can see that it should be made plain, before the 
story is told, that that has been done, if only to 
indicate the view of things that makes one rather 
like such a transformation process, and also to dis- 
credit, at the start, a good deal of the criticism that 
is usually made about stories of this sort. But your 
common sense is not going to browbeat my spirit 
sense.” 

B 


10 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


" Explain,” she put in, leaning forward a little. 

“ Well,” he said, “ take the last first. People bring 
entirely false standards to the test of the super- 
natural. By hypothesis, the supernatural is not the 
natural, and it is not therefore to be, at least finally 
and conclusively, tested by the standards one applies 
to the natural. Spiritual things must be judged by 
spiritual tests. You don’t lick a picture to find out 
if it’s pretty, and a Gothic cathedral may be the 
most wonderful song in stone imaginable, but a blind 
man cannot hear it. Well, now, I maintain that we 
know so little about the supernatural that we honestly 
don’t know by what to test it. People demand that 
a spirit shall prove itself intangible ; I fail to see 
the necessity. They insist that the environment and 
psychology of the seer of the vision have a great 
deal to do with the likelihood of his seeing at all in 
the first place, and of what he sees in the second. 
I believe that there is a spiritual world entirely indif- 
ferent to human psychology and environment, so far 
as any limitation of its activities is involved ; indeed, 
I am inclined to believe that any manifestation which 
appears to depend entirely upon such things united 
in the person of some one or other medium, is likely 
to be either not strictly supernatural at all, or, at 
best, the activity of a much inferior and probably 
debased portion of the spirit world.” 

“ And the Mosuto in this garden ? ” 

“ Well, it’s a good case. I think we lay far too much 
stress on the Mosuto and the garden in every instance. 
If there is to be a genuine angel-visit, I’m perfectly 
certain that it is indifferent to the angel whether he 
comes to this garden or to the trenches, to a Mosuto 
or a Frenchman, in war or peace, by day or night 
— ^though I will admit that I think there is one thing 
for which he looks. I don’t think he troubles much 


IN NO STRANGE LAND 11 


about race or place, but I think he looks for the 
characteristics of the Kingdom of Heaven. And the 
Kingdom of Heaven is within you, remember. . . . 
So I don’t believe it matters in the least how I 
disguise my story, provided I keep the things of the 
spirit the same throughout.” 

His companion smiled. “ I see,” she said. Then : 

The gates of heaven are lightly locked, 

We do not guard our gain. 

The heaviest hind may easily 
Come silently and suddenly 
Upon me in a lane ; 

And any little maid that walks 
In good thoughts apart. 

May break the guard of the Three Kings, 

And see the dear and dreadful things 
I hid within my heart 

she quoted. “ That’s what our Lady said, according 
to G. K. C., and I suppose it’s much what you mean ? ” 

He nodded. 

A little silence fell between them, as it may fall 
between friends, a silence in which communication 
did not, however, cease. On the contrary, something 
beyond speech seemed to be explaining the one to 
the other. Across the lawn and the new rose-garden, 
and the dip down to the spruit that was full of young 
willows, where the rough road wound up and round 
a kopje, a Scotch-cart was lumbering slowly along, 
driven by a couple of red-shirted prisoners. The man 
watched it intently, and you might have thought he 
was speculating upon it. So he was — in a manner. 

“ You see,” he went on suddenly, “ I don’t believe, 
to go on with, that we have any true idea as to the 
real values of sensory objects at all. Scent, touch, 
sight, hearing — these are not delusions, as some have 
thought, most emphatically not, and the objects 
which we apprehend by them are not delusions either. 


12 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


But I feel equally certain that the reality of anything 
is not what we take it to be. . . . It’s hard to express, 
but what I mean is this : I don’t believe that trees, 
beasts, flowers, rocks, the very earth, are only fleeting 
phantoms ; I believe that they have, or will have, 
some real value in the spiritual world ; but at the 
same time I am pretty sure that we have no idea 
what that value is, and that there is no objective 
reality in the sense-impressions themselves.” 

The lady leaned back and her brown eyes glistened. 
“You mean that this garden may be just, in truth 
— ^well, the robe of God ? ” she queried. 

“ Yes,” he said, reverently. 

“ So you see where that gets you to,” he went on, 
rather excitedly. “ In the first place, if there is to 
be any soit of manifestation, that spiritual world is 
bound to wear a dress composed of our sense-impressions, 
including, very likely, that of materiality ; but I 
decline to believe that that dress has any objective 
reality either, or that you can argue anything from 
it. If an angel wishes to approach a soul on earth 
in anything other than (for the man) a purely spiritual 
manner, he must approach by means of sense- 
impressions ; moreover, if he wants to inform the 
individual that he is an angel, he must approach in 
such sense-wise that he is recognised as such. If an 
angel wanted to approach you, now, as an angel, it 
would be no use his coming as a prisoner in a red 
shirt with the broad-arrow on it, with a black face 
sticking out, and with language that would sound to 
you, down the telephone which we call hearing, as 
commonplace Sesuto remarks. You would say he 
was not an angel, but a Mosuto prisoner. But so, too, 
I can see not the least reason in the world why Sir 
Oliver Lodge’s son, Raymond, should not speak to his 
father of whisky-sodas and cigars in the spiritual 


IN NO STRANGE LAND 13 


world. Doubtless there are no such things there, but 
neither are there harps and vials. Granted Raymond 
— about whom, by the way, I express no opinion — 
there is no reason why he should not use such a 
form of language to convey an idea — ^though what 
that idea may be I have hardly the faintest concep- 
tion. But that doesn’t surprise me. I am perfectly 
certain that this side of death I shall never under- 
stand at all what reality of the spiritual world it is 
which produces upon me the sense-impression that 
we call whisky-soda ! ” 

" All the same, the whisky-soda notion jars me,” 
said his hearer, without a smile. 

“ You’re right, too. I’m pretty sure. I should be 
sorry if the spiritual world had to use such a dress 
in which to convey something to me, or to convey 
something about a person I loved. Mind you, we 
may be wrong. For heaven’s sake, don’t let us argue 
as if there were anything more actually evil or earthly 
in whisky than in water, but I feel that the real value 
of a great many things is raised or lowered by our 
use of the sense-impressions we get from them. Well, 
there’s not much doubt but that the human use of 
whisky has depressed it pretty low ! But let’s drop 
that. The second great deduction I make is this : 
I believe that often the spiritual world , does not wish 
us to know that it has obtruded, and that therefore 
the dress it assumes is such that it is not determinable 
whether or no the affair is a manifestation of the 
spiritual, or not. . . . Do you know of Panhandle ? ” 

” No ; who is he ? ” 

“ Get Professor Jacks to tell you. The point is 
that he was a ghost all the time, and the Professor 
never knew it. He dressed himself up in whisky- 
sodas and so on — and sky-signs, and shot-guns, 
and ” 


14 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


The brown eyes twinkled. That’s fiction,” she 
said. '' I can see you’re ragging me. But I’ll read 
it sometime. Just now, though, do you know a story 
to show me what you mean ? ” 

“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “I do.” 

“ Well, tell it me,” she pleaded. 

“ Pour me out another cup of tea, then,” he said, 
‘‘ and let me light a cigarette. Their spiritual values, 
anyway, are ” 

“ Oh, shut up,” she laughed. “ Here you are. 
Now fire away. Only I shall know that you’ve put 
any dress you thought fit, on an otherwise true 
incident.” 

“ Have it that way if you like,” he said ; “ only 
remember that the characteristic of this glimpse of 
the spiritual world, if it were a glimpse, was that it 
showed hardly a trace of its being a strange land 
at all. That is the point of it. Therefore I’m not 
sure that it was a manifestation. I think — but, there, 
ril say no more. Judge for yourself.” And then, 
while the butterflies danced across the flowers, he 
told his tale. 


“ It was in Paris, before the war, but not long 
before, just at the time when the Anti-clerical legisla- 
tion was pretty nearly at its worst. That legislation 
was popular, too, to a great extent, and in any case 
it had given a handle to the dregs of the people which 
they were not slow to fit into the weapon of their 
lust and greed. I, then, was staying in Paris, with 
that Abbe of whom I have often told you, and although 
it was time for me to return to England, I could not 
bring myself to leave him. His little church had its 
door locked on to the back street in which it stood, 
and the faithful slipped in at the side. Every day 
in the very early dawn we would go down, he looking 


IN NO STRANGE LAND 15 


so frail, and I feeling fearful, and the old sacristan, 
who had served the office for a generation, would 
meet us by the little side entrance. He would open 
the door, and stand there on guard while we made 
ready for Mass — though he would not have been much 
use as guard anyway. The Abbe would vest in the 
little sacristy, with a back glance over his shoulder 
now and again, and the httle congregation would 
gather — a woman with a child or two, an old bent 
bookseller from the barrows near Notre Dame, who 
never missed, and two who had been used to pass 
the streets in the habit of their order, and now could 
not. And I would kneel at the back and watch it 
all, and take the sacrist’s place when the Abbe went 
to the altar and the old man served him. The dull 
light used to filter in through the dusty glass, and 
shine on the dingy Renaissance altar with its gilded 
angels and heavy Madonna and wax flowers and 
brown and gold reliquaries — and holy priest. For he 
was holy, and I would, at the last, have changed not 
so much as a glass case of wax flowers, since they 
were knit up in some way with his spirit. And then 
he would come down and kneel for the Pope’s prayers, 
and his thin voice, so acute in its cry, always brought 
tears to my eyes at the last : 

“ ‘ Sacred Heart of Jesus — Have mercy upon us.’ 

“ During the day he went out but seldom, and then 
only at a sick-call. I, too, had lost a great deal of 
my love for Paris, for the sufferings and fears of the 
Church had taken hold on me. Paris seemed drunken 
in her beauty and fury. The gay restaurant life, the 
moving crowds, the thronged shops — I had used to 
love them, but now Paris seemed to me like some 
wanton, painted and daubed, that played with souls 
for sport. I would go, perhaps, to the Bois ; or to 
the bookstalls, for a chat, if we could get out of 


16 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


ear-shot, with the faithful old fellow who sold there ; 
or to the heights of Montmartre — but little where 
else, until the evening. But after supper, with his 
office said, my friend and I would slip out to the 
river and walk by the bridges and the water, almost 
unseen. 

‘‘ One night we had strayed farther Hhan we intended. 
The moon had stamped the towers of the great Cathe- 
dral out against the sky, and had deepened to black 
the shadows of the bridges on the water, and of the 
trees on the boulevards ; and we had walked far, 
almost in silence, drinking in the beauty of the night. 
As a matter of fact, we had reached a part of the 
city that I did not know at all, and I was just about 
to say to the priest that I thought we should be 
returning, when I felt him clutch my arm. 

' Dick,' he said, ‘ look over there — under the trees 
across the way — can you see anything ? ' 

I looked. It was not so easy to see, but I thought 
I could make out two or three figures. I said as 
much. 

‘ They're following us, Dick,' said the Abbe ; ‘ we 
ought not to have come so far. It is a bad quarter 
just here, and they look to me very like Apaches. 
I-et us turn back.' 

‘ Well, not in a hurry,' said I, ' or they will think 
we suspect something. Stop and look at the water 
a minute, naturalty, and then turn back.' 

“ We did so. We stood there, looking down at the 
moon-lit water, the priest's arm through mine, for 
what seemed interminable minutes, while no one 
moved across the road ; and then, turning round, 
we set off back, down the deserted boulevard, towards 
the lights of more-inhabited Paris. 

'' But we had hardly turned, before a party of 
three men and one woman crossed the road towards 


IN NO STRANGE LAND 17 


our side, plainly to cut off our retreat. ‘ Keep on,’ 
I whispered, ‘ maybe they will do nothing ’ ; and 
without, I think, quickening our pace perceptibly, we 
walked on. I could hear the Abb6 praying beneath 
his breath. 

“ The party reached the pathway ten yards or so 
before us, and glanced behind them. Then, seeing 
they were plainly alone, they spread out across the 
pavement and all attempt at concealment died out 
of their faces. 

“ The Abbe stopped me. ‘ What is it you want, 
my children ? ’ he asked them. 

“ ‘ Your life, you black — devil,’ spat out one of 
them without another word, and drew a knife. 

“ My heart stood still : I don’t think I could have 
moved if I had been alone. There was nobody in 
sight, and in any case I knew only too well what 
would be the temper of any Paris crowd from that 
quarter. Yet even then I remember noticing how 
the light from the nearest lamp-standard ahead 
twinkled and laughed on the rippling water before us. 

“ ‘ Run,’ cried my friend, dragging me round on 
the instant. I caught sight of the woman’s face as 
he did so, and the horror that thrilled me then did 
something to stir me into life. Till that night I 
did not believe that a soul could be devil-possessed, 
but a devil of lust and hate stared from that woman’s 
white face — and a young woman she was, too. I 
heard her laugh and yell : ‘ After them, my braves. 
And keep the little priest for me ! ’ and we were 
away. 

“ I suppose terror does lend one wings ; anyway, 
I ran as I have never run before ; and although those 
street Apaches know how to run, I had been counted 
good at the ’Varsity, and the little Abbe in the old 
days, not so long before, had been athletic enough, too. 


18 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


So, somehow, we distanced them at first. We had 
been compelled to run away from home and the more 
populous streets, and we were soon at a place at 
which we must turn inland from the river. We did 
so, doubling down one street, up and down another, 
and gradually losing what we had gained. ‘ Wliere 
are we ? ' I managed to gasp at one corner, and the 
Abbe just replied: ‘Don't know.' It was a terrible 
prospect. Every house we flew by was dark and still ; 
a good many shuttered shops offered us still less 
hope of help ; and we had neither breath nor courage 
to cry for assistance. 

“ And then, so quickly that a few seconds sufficed 
for it all, came the rescue. We had darted round 
a corner, and were running down a street, when we 
noticed that the houses had given place to a high 
wall and that in the wall was a little door, ajar, from 
which came a pencil of yellow light. The little Abbe 
was nearest the wall, and it was he who gasped, ‘ In 
there.' In a second, and just as we could hear the 
feet of our pursuers coming round the corner, we 
pushed open the door and darted in. 

“ Now I cannot hope to make you feel our incredible 
amazement at what we found inside. We were in 
a small chapel, stone-pillared and flagged ; before 
us was an altar with eight or ten lights blazing on 
it, and in the centre of the lights, in a monstrance, 
the Blessed Sacrament. And before the altar, at a 
prie-dieu, praying, a nun knelt in her habit, who 
neither moved at our sudden noisy entry, nor stirred 
at all when we left. As I say, we blundered in. Per- 
sonally, I was half dazed by the light and the contrast. 
It was simply Heaven after Hell. I don't think I 
thought for a second of what our pursuers might do ; 
I just gasped half-audibly : ‘ Oh, my God,' and 

staggered forward to kneel at a high chair, bow my 


IN NO STRANGE LAND 19 


head and close my eyes, and try to stay the beating 
of my heart. 

“But I did hear the Abbe push the door to, and 
I was conscious that he came swiftly forward and 
stood by me, irresolute. Practically at once, however, 
the footsteps reached the door, the handle rattled, 
and the door itself was opened. Then there followed 
a kind of eternity. I braced myself to get up on 
the instant and do battle to push the Apache without 
and close the door ; I reproached myself that in the 
overwhelming amazement of my surprise I had not 
held it ; and I struggled with a kind of torrent of 
hideous thoughts as to what might happen to that 
kneeling nun and that which she adored — for, remem- 
ber, men stopped at nothing in those days. I tell 
you, it seemed an instant hanging on the brink of 
eternity. I was all but springing up ; I seemed to 
know I would be up in a second ; and yet that second 
died out and lengthened, and still I knelt. 

“ And then the door banged, and the Abbe gave 
a choking sob and fell on his knees at my side. I 
looked up at him, and could see that he was but 
praying through tears, and so again I hid my face. 
No sound of steps or voices reached us — no sound at 
all save that once a bit of wax fell from a candle on 
to the altar. We waited perhaps an hour, and then 
I rose to my feet. The Abbe’s white face looked up 
at me, but we neither of us spoke. I genuflected and 
stole silently to the door. I listened ; I could hear 
nothing. I opened it bit by bit, ever so slowly, and 
peered out : the street was empty. I beckoned the 
priest, and he came to me. ‘ Shall we go ? ’ I whispered; 
and he nodded. Together we stole out, and in fears 
enough, but, unseen and unmolested, reached, in half 
an hour or so, a street my friend knew, and so at 
length his house. 


so THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


“ We hardly spoke on that rapid half-walk, half-run 
home, but once in his study, my friend faced me. 

“ ‘ Dick,’ said he, ‘ what do you make of it ? ’ and 
his voice trembled. 

“ ‘ Make of it ? ’ I queried, for I did not understand 
the drift of his meaning. He made a gesture of 
impatience. 

“ * First,’ he said, ticking the points off on his 
fingers, ‘ the Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament, 
and even, as you know, its Reservation, except under 
most peculiar and stringent circumstances, is for- 
bidden to-day in Paris. Secondly, I know Paris well, 
and there is no Order of Perpetual Adoration left. 
Thirdly, by what conceivable carelessness could the 
door into the street from such a chapel have been 
left open? Fourthly — although I admit this is not 
conclusive — how came the nun never to stir or to 
have her vigil relieved, though we were there a long 
time ? And fifthly, what did the man see at the 
door which prevented him and his friends from coming 
in ? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! ’ I said, ‘ as to that, the sudden sight of the 
chapel and the Sacrament, as with us, acted upon 
him so strongly that he could not break its sanctity.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ said the priest with a French shrug of 
his shoulders. ‘ My friend, you do not know these 
poor souls. . . . No, it was just such a heaven as 
they love to make into hell. Why, I tell you, when 
I saw where we were, I was for going out and on, and 
trying to save it. Only there was ho time, and as 
soon as that man opened the door, the sight of his 
face stopped me.’ 

“ ‘ His face ? ’ queried I, stupidly. 

“ ‘ Yes, his face,’ repeated the Abbe, impatiently. 
‘ My friend Dick, what would you have expected to 
see on his face ? ’ 




IN NO STRANGE LAND 

21 


“ ‘ Well,’ said I, hesitatingly, ‘ I don’t know. 
Astonishment, of course, at finding himself at a chapel 
door. Fear, I should have thought, on my assumption 
that it was a sense of sanctity that kept him out ; 
but on yours, well, triumph perhaps. 

“ ‘ Exactly,’ exclaimed the Abbe, exultantly, ‘ and 
it was just because there were no such emotions there, 
that I was arrested where I stood. My friend, I 
could swear that he saw nothing. Into what he thought 
the door opened, I do not know ; but this I know, 
that his face, as I saw it, was flushed and hot and 
eager, as you would expect from the chase, and that 
it changed absolutely not at all. He looked in, and 
out again in a second, as one might hastily snatch 
open a cupboard door, and find nothing, and close it.’ 

" He stopped, with a gesture. I stared at him. 
‘ But they must have seen that we were not in the 
street into which we had plainly turned a minute 
before,’ I objected. 

“ The Abbe lifted his hands, with a shrug, and 
elevated his eyebrows. Then, peering at me eagerly, 
he almost whispered : ‘ And did you hear their 

footsteps departing ? ’ 

“ I looked at him with a sudden sense of awe. 
‘ Why, no,’ I said ; and silence fell between us as we 
stood there.” 

The story-teller threw away his cigarette, which had 
gone out, and lifted a warning hand. “ No, my dear,” 
he said. “ Don’t ask questions. There’s absolutely 
no more to be said, except perhaps this : that my 
friend made inquiries from authorities who were 
positive that no such infringement of the ecclesiastical 
rule of the time could have been possible, and who 
were, moreover, plainly distrustful of 'my friend when 
he pressed them, for they asserted that no such Order 


22 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


existed, or had existed (so far as they knew) in that 
quarter of Paris. He and I, with some English friends 
of mine, tried to retrace our steps, but could not, 
though that in itself is not surprising — ^we had been 
lost, and Paris is labyrinthine in certain parts. Nor 
can I aid your curiosity about the chapel. At the 
time, I had no thought but that all was normal, although 
providentially fortunate, and I noted nothing in the 
chapel to give any indication of date or place. And 
even now I absolutely decline to pass a judgment. 
It is not a matter for judgment. No hypothesis, 
natural or non-natural, can be either proved or dis- 
proved. Only one thing I know : our lives were saved 
by a miracle that night, and no explanation that I 
may learn, hereafter, will surprise me.'* 

The little woman smiled. You stupid person,'* 
she said, I wasn't even going to ask that sort of 
question. But I am wondering where, when, and to 
whom it all happened, and what it was that happened 
— in short, the truth that makes it true." 

But Dick will tell neither her nor anyone. 


OUR LADY’S PAIN 23 


CHAPTER II 
Our Lady’s Pain 

Geographically Basutoland is one and undivided, 
but those who work in it labour under no such delusion. 
It is not one land but two. There is the Lesuto, the 
fertile strip that lies to the west of the Malutis, bordered 
by the Free State on the one hand and the mountains 
on the other, the land of mealies and shops, the land 
whose people ought to be well off but never seem to have 
much to give away ; and then there is the Sehonghong, 
the land of rivers, which rise for the most part in Mont 
aux Sources, and flow down parallel to the steep Natal 
border, where are kranzes that drop several thousand 
feet in sheer descent to the plains below. Here are 
river- valleys deep in wheatfields, and few white men, and 
seeming poverty, but riches of kind and of generosity 
that are not much known in the Lesuto. In between 
the two, over that first barrier as one comes from the 
Lesuto, lies a no-man’s land of hill upon hill, rough and 
rugged and inhospitable, although a thousand clear 
streams and scores of fantastic peaks, often white with 
snow against the blue of the sky, make it a land of 
great delight. Almost anywhere, by any of the half- 
dozen-odd passes and tracks, euphemistically designated 
roads, by which one can travel from the Lesuto to the 
Sehonghong, and back, there are rather more than 
twenty-four hours to be spent between the last settle- 
ments of the one and the first huts of the other. The 
traveller has a long, hard, solitary day and a lonely night 
before him when he leaves his outpost camp, and then, 
some time or another before the set of the next day’s 


24 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


sun, he will be among villages once more. It is just 
the one night’s camp between, for which it will be 
impossible to get a roof over one’s head if it rains or 
snows, difficult to procure firewood, hopeless to think 
of milk. 

Of course, if one journeyed with a wagon none of 
these things would matter, but only the mountain 
ponies can scramble up those tiny trails to the 10,000- 
feet level, or make their way, like so many cats, among 
the crags and steeps of the constant climbing that 
follows. So one looks forward to a camp, jolly in the 
spring, possibly uncomfortable in summer when the 
thunder-storms are about, nastily cold in autumn; 
dangerous among the snows of winter, but lonely all 
the year round. And yet no one who has watched the 
moon creep up the steep mountain side till the red glow 
of the fire is black in her radiance, or lain, rolled in 
blankets, while the sharp peaks about glow in the rosy 
dawn, but dreams of the night that shall find him once 
again between Sehonghong and Lesuto. 

For all that, Michael Carlile, the missionary, was not 
in the happiest of tempers as his pony stumbled, at 
three miles an hour, up the last ascent of a seemingly 
unending series of ridges which he intended to climb 
that day. They had crossed the Sinko (which, later, 
people call the Orange) in the dawn, and the Semena 
had proved a nuisance about nine of the clock. Michael’s 
pack-horse, an obstinate brute, had declined to follow 
the others through the one ford where the water was 
only middle-deep, and the river had swept him down 
for a jolly little swim that had meant a magnificently 
wet breakfast for Michael at ten. Ever since then 
they had been going up and down, each ascent leading 
to a skyline which only showed another beyond it. 
Nor had they seen a soul all day. Nor had the sun 
been hot enough thoroughly to dry the blankets in which 


OUR LADY’S PAIN 25 


they must sleep that night. Nor was there anything 
for supper but the scant remains of a fortnight’s provi- 
sions, consisting chiefly of a tin of sardines and some 
ancient bread, which could not be contemplated with 
pleasure. Besides, Michael was saddle-sore from a long 
trek, and the horses dead tired, and a day’s ride on a 
tired horse is calculated to impair the temper of the 
best of missionaries. Michael, therefore, jogged his horse 
to the summit in a dull wonder as to why he had ever 
been ass enough to come to the Lesuto at all. 

A last pull, and they were up — and Michael reined 
up for a moment with an exclamation of surprise. 
Across the little valley, with its spring of mountain 
water by which they would camp, was another 
skyline, and, as he topped his own, a man rode up to 
that other. It was not so far across that he could not 
see that the man was white, and even while he waited 
for his boy and his pack-horse to stumble up alongside, 
the other man’s boy and pack joined him. Both parties 
quickened up for the descent, and in a quarter of an 
hour the Rev. Michael Carlile was shaking hands with 
the Rev. John Meredith of his own Mission. 

They had met but once before, though their 
parishes adjoined, and that at the conference among 
the flesh-pots of the central station, with its several 
churches, and considerable European population, and 
quite imposing conventionalities. That they had met 
but once was not surprising, however, as Michael’s 
parish exceeded 4,000 square miles, and John’s ran a 
good second. But it seemed that both chanced to be 
travelling that day on the border, and that so they had 
met. And both were pleasantly surprised at the 
meeting. 

The united forces soon had a camp comfortably 
arranged. The big fire flamed up, and Michael’s inner 
man warmed still more on the discovery that his friend 


26 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


was more recently from civilisation, and that it would 
not be necessary to fall back on sardines. While he 
saw to the drying of his blankets, Meredith spread a 
ground-sheet and divided his own sleeping equipment 
into two couches, whereon each man could stretch 
himself, and eat with the luxury of ancient Romans. 
Michael returned to view a feast — a soup of meat extract, 
a cold fowl and fried potatoes, new bread, butter and 
jam, and — incredible kindness of Providence ! — half 
a box of dates ! They washed it down with coffee, and 
lit their pipes while the moon came up over the crests 
in a glory of pure silver light. 

There was nothing said, at first, that is of any interest 
here. They discussed the usual topics — their horses, 
their respective routes (with many barbarous names), 
and their past experiences of the trail. It was all such 
as you might have heard at a hundred African camp- 
fires that night. Then they said a little of religion, 
as might have been expected, and the talk died down. 
Both were tired. Carlile knocked out his pipe, and it 
sounded sharp and clear in the still night. 

“ Shall we have Mass to-morrow ? ” he asked. 

“Yes, I think so,” said Meredith ; “ that flat stone 
will do well for an altar. Will you say it, or shall I ? ” 

“ I don’t mind,” said the other, “ though as a matter of 
fact I’m horribly tired and I should be glad if you did.” 

“ I should very much like to, to-morrow,” said 
Meredith, “ as it’s an anniversary with me. Do you 
mind if I say a votive mass of the Sacred Heart of 
Jesus ? I always feel that one can say votive masses 
more or less when one likes in the mountains, and I try 
to say one of the Sacred Heart every year on February 
the 5th.” 

“Why, of course,” said Michael, “I don’t mind, but, 
if it isn’t obtruding, I should be interested to know why 
you keep the day in that way.” 


OUR LADY’S PAIN 27 


The other did not answer for a moment, and Michael 
felt reproached. 

“ Oh ! I shouldn’t have asked,” he said ; “ please don’t 
mind not telling me.” 

Father Meredith raised himself on his arm and looked 
out over the valley. The stars shone clear and it was. 
very still. He was the older man, and Michael regarded 
him a little curiously. He looked as if he wished to 
speak, but hardly knew how to frame the words. But 
a bit of liso fell in the fire with a slight noise, and at 
that triviality he looked over at Carlile. 

“ I’ll tell you, if you like,” he said slowly, “ but to 
be frank, I don’t know you well enough to be sure what 
you will make of it. It’s a curious story, and will take 
a little time. Are you sure you care to hear ? ” 

“ Rather,” said the younger man. Meredith had a 
bit of a reputation. He was thought the most devoted 
priest in the diocese, and he was unlike the rest in many 
ways. Not the least, he practised his religion with a 
single directness that was rather striking. Michael 
was keen, therefore, to hear what he had to say. 

" I’ll just fill my pipe again,” he said, " if you don’t 
mind.” 

“Not a bit,” said the other, and then, “ Do you 
believe in relics ? ” 

Michael stopped pushing in the dry Transvaal leaves, 
and looked up expectantly. “ Well . . he said, and 
hesitated. “ Yes,” he added. 

Father Meredith smiled. “ Not prepossessed against 
them, eh ? ” he said. “ Well, I admit I was, up to four 
years ago, come to-morrow. I’d seen the Holy House, 
you know, and I can’t abide the hideous trunks that 
disfigure the French altars under the name of reliquaries. 
But four years ago to-morrow I saw something which 
left me less critical, and I think a little more humble. 
It was this way.” 


28 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


And so Michael Carlile heard the story of our Lady’s 
sorrow as he lay on a blanket away among the Malutis 
under the light of the moon. 

“ I had a friend in London some years back,” said 
Father John, “ who was one of those odd people whom 
you sometimes meet, a shrewd person enoughj fairly 
well off, clever, very sympathetic to religion, but 
by no means a practising Catholic. He had a house 
down Chelsea way, a nice old place, in which he had 
stored a great collection of rare and strange things, 
many of them beautiful and a good few ecclesiastical. 
I always go to see him when I am in England, and 
he always shows me anything new that he has 
acquired since I was there last. Four j^ears ago, on 
my last furlough, after I had been home for a 
month or so, I went up to Town to visit my tailor and 
do a little business, and towards six o’clock ran down to 
Chelsea for dinner. My friend was not expecting me, 
but I knew he was in Town, and he was the kind of man 
a Colonial can get on with, since he rather liked his 
friends to drop in entirely unexpectedly. Moreover, if 
he had been out, I should have gone on to the priest 
with whom I was staying. 

” His man answered my knock, and showed me at 
once into my friend’s sanctum. He was smoking in an 
armchair before a fire as I entered, but he jumped up 
at my name and came forward eagerly. I was struck 
at once with the fact that he was excited. 

" ‘ Meredith ! ’ he exclaimed, ‘ by all that’s odd. I had 
no idea you were in England or I should most certainly 
have asked you here to-night. Come in, my dear man. 
I’m delighted to see you. Benson, tell the cook Father 
Meredith will stay for dinner.’ 

” He gave me one of his excellent cigars, and forced 
me down into his own chair. He himself leaned on the 


OUR LADY’S PAIN 29 


mantelpiece and watched me, and all the while that he 
courteously asked the usual questions I could see that 
something lay on his mind about which he burned to 
speak. So I said at last : ‘ Come along, Fenton ; out 
with it ; what’s on your mind ? ’ 

" He laughed at that and took two or three restless 
little marches up and down the room before he spoke. 

‘ Yes,’ he said, ’ I suppose you can see that I’m 
especially interested in something, and the truth is, 
Meredith, that so I am, very interested. I’ve hit on 
something which is more extraordinary than anything 
else I’ve known in the whole course of my life, and I 
can’t get rid of the sense of it. Here, take this. What 
do you make of it ? ’ 

“As he spoke he hurried across the room, pulled 
open a drawer in his writing desk, and lifted something 
carefully out. He came back to me more quietly; 
and put an object in my hands. It was a cross of 
black wood, heavy and solid, about two feet long and 
six inches thick.’’ 

Meredith paused a moment, and put his pipe down. 
He had been tranquilly smoking up till now. Then 
he leant a little forward and said quietly and evenly, 
but rather slowly : — 

“ Now, Carlile, you have got to take my word for 
what I say. I’m not a sentimentalist, and I don’t 
know anything about psychology and all the rest of 
it, but I must tell you what happened when Fenton 
put that cross in my hands. I was sitting in my chair, 
you remember. Well, I had leaned forward to take 
the thing, and until that moment I had no idea at all 
what I was to see. Even then I did not know what 
I know now. But the moment that object lay in my 
hands, Fenton, the room, the thing itself, passed 
absolutely out of my mind. I don’t mean to say that 
they faded away or anything like that ; only that 


30 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


suddenly my mental senses were overpowered by some- 
thing else. Do you know^ how sometimes a bit of music, 
or a picture, or, more often still, a scent, will recall 
some memory so strongly that present circumstances, 
for a second or two, almost disappear ? Well, it was 
like that, onty the sensation was far more powerful 
than anything I have ever experienced before. I forgot, 
absolutely, all my surroundings. I just sat, leaning 
forward, with that in my hands. 

And that was not all. It was not mere forgetfulness 
of external things ; I was conscious of something else. 
How can I explain it ? I was conscious of an over- 
whelming sense of desolation and sorrow, but not as 
if it were my own, only as if someone I loved was 
suffering, and I was a spectator of it. That sense 
racked me through and through. I found, when I 
looked up, that my eyes were full of tears. 

‘‘ But even that was not all. You have formed, doubt- 
less, an explanation so far, in your mind, but I do not 
think you will expect this. I was also overwhelmingly 
conscious that the person whose suffering I felt was 
a woman. You may ask how that could possibly have 
been, and I cannot answer you ; I do not know. All 
I do know is that my sense was exactly that of standing 
by the side of a woman, at whom I was looking and 
whom I loved, and who was stabbed and torn with 
an emotion so terrible that it communicated itself to 
me in crushing desolation. 

Then I heard Fenton speaking. ‘ You, too ! ' he 
exclaimed. ‘ My God, why not I ? ' And I looked up, 
as I have said. 

‘‘ There was a silence between us for a little. I still 
felt moved — I remember I was even trembling ; but 
the original sense had passed, and I could look 
at that cross without feeling it. But still I had not 
moved. Then I broke our silence by an effort, and 


OUR LADY’S PAIN 31 


I think I said, ‘ What is it, Fenton, and where did 
you get it ? ’ 

“ ‘ Look closer,’ he said. 

“ I turned the thing over, and saw at once that it 
was a cleverly contrived box. There was a little spring, 
which I released, and at once a most beautiful silver 
reliquary, as I did not doubt, was exposed to view, 
itself a chased silver cross lying within the outer casket 
of wood. I took it out, and momentarily the sensation 
I have described returned to me. But it passed, and 
I saw that the silver cross also opened. I released that 
spring, and there lay in my hand an ivory and enamel 
cross, a few inches long only, a perfect gem of work- 
manship, it also a box. I was just about to open this 
latter cross when Fenton stopped me, and even as he 
did so I became aware that I had forgotten him again, 
and that I was slowly returning to that state which 
had come upon me so suddenly before. ‘ No,’ said he, 

‘ don’t open that. Close them again. Father, and give 
them to me. I want to tell you the story. There is 
just time before dinner.’ 

“ He spoke normally again, and I put the three 
together and returned him the cross. Then he sat down 
opposite me. and told me this history. 

“ ‘ A few weeks ago,’ he said, ‘ I had nothing to do 
one afternoon, so I thought I would stroll down to 
Isaacson’s, the old Jew at the corner of Beaufort 
Street, whom I had not seen for some months, and who 
often keeps things for me to see if I care for them. 
I reached his shop and found him apparently doing 
nothing as usual, and after we had greeted each other, 
I asked him if he had anything to show me. 

“ ‘ He said, “Yes,” and produced a bit of Sheffield 
plate, for which I care nothing ; an Egyptian ring, 
curious but not unlike several more I have ; a 
Renaissance stole, which I bought to give to the 


32 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


‘'Art and Book Co/' man, for whom I often pick up 
such things. 

“ ‘ “Well," said I, “that's not much, Isaacson. Can't 
you better that ? " 

“ ‘ “ No, sir," said he, and as he said it I knew he 
lied. He's a nice old chap, Isaacson — to me, anyway — 
and looks you straight in the face as a rule, but as he 
said that, he kept his eyes on the case before him. 

" ‘ “Isaacson," said I, “ you have. Out with it ! 
Why shouldn't I see it, even if you can't part with it? " 

' 1 won't go on with our argument. It's enough 
that he refused for a long time, but at length gave in. 

“ < “Well, Mr. Fenton," he said, ‘‘if you step round 
here you can see something, for I won't touch it. 
I won't sell it you, sir ; no, not for anything. So it's 
no use your trying to buy it, but seeing as how we've 
done a bit together, you and I, you can see it, sir, for 
yourself ! " 

“ ‘ “Does it bite, Isaacson? " said I, laughing, and 
passed round the counter ; and there on a shelf at the 
back that looked as if it had been cleared for it, lay 
that cross. It was a curious thing to see in an old Jew's 
shop, and more curious still to hear the old man speak 
like that. So I picked it up right away without a 
word. 

“ ‘ “Ah ! " exclaimed old Isaacson. “ Do you feel 
nothing, sir ? " “ Feel anything ? " said I. “Why of 
course I don't, except old wood." (Then I sprang the 
catch.) “ Why it's a reliquary, and fine at that ! 
What, an ivory one inside, too ! What's in that ? " 

“ ' “Don't open that, sir ! " exclaimed the old man. 

“ ‘ Well, it was a bit foolish, I suppose ; but we stood 
and looked at each other behind the counter for a 
second or two without a word. Something in that old 
man's face silenced me, but I was never more surprised 
in my life than when he said suddenly : 


OUR LADY’S PAIN 33 


“ ‘ “ There, sir, take it away. I won’t sell it you, and 
I didn’t mean to speak of it, but seeing as how you feel 
nothing, sir, take it away.” 

“ ‘ I couldn’t move him to name a price, and he would 
say no more, neither how he had got it, nor what was 
inside that ivory cross, though I guessed what he 
thought was there. So I came away here, and opened 
the whole. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said I, ‘ and what is in it ? ’ 

“ ‘ A thin slither of wood,’ replied Fenton slowly, 
‘ a mere splinter, black with age and very brittle.’ 

“ The clock ticked on without interruption for a good 
minute, and then he went on, for I would not speak : 

“ ‘ But I must tell you the rest. That night I took 
the case round to Father Andr6, at the Servite Church — 
you know ? ’ 

“ I nodded. ‘ Well, I gave it to him, just saying 
that it was a curious old reliquary that I had come 
across that afternoon ; but the moment his hands 
closed on it, he looked as you did just now.’ 

“ ‘ How did I look ? ’ said I. 

“ ‘ Never mind,’ said Fenton ; ‘ just listen a minute. 
When he looked up, I said to him : “ Well, Father, what 
do you feel, for I can feel nothing”; and he answered 
me, as far as I can remember, in these words — remember 
he knew no more than you did. 

“ ‘ “I feel as if I had seen my mother with a breaking 
heart, and as if mine would break too.” Is that how 
you felt ? ’ 

” I nodded ; I could say nothing ; and again the old 
clock held the field. 

“ ‘ Come,’ Fenton said suddenly, ‘ I am forgetting 
we must dress for dinner and I’ve not finished. Have 
you heard of Mademoiselle Duville ? Well, she is 
coming here to-night, after dinner, to hold that in her 
hands. A man I know, to whom I told the story. 


34 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


suggested it, for I know nothing whatever of mediums 
and clairvoyants. But it appears that she was very 
famous once, and that now she is a good Catholic and 
won’t ordinarily touch the subject ; but he is bringing 
her. I’ve asked Father Andre too, though he doesn’t 
know why, and I should have asked you if you were in 
England — and here you are ! Now let’s go and dress.’ 

“ But at the door I stopped him. ‘ Fenton,’ I said, 

‘ did Father Andre say any more ? ’ 

“ ‘ Why do you ask that ? ’ he queried. 

“ ‘ Only curiosity ’ I said, ‘ Why ? ’ 

“ ‘ Well ’ he said rather grimly, ‘ because he did say 
one other thing as we parted at the door in the Fulham 
Road. It was this : “ I shall pray God, Mr. Fenton, 
than you may come to feel as I felt too.” 

Meredith stopped for so long, that Carlile interrupted 
his silence. “ Is that all?” he asked. “ Nearly,” said 
Meredith, “ but I am sorry, for the climax is to come 
and it is getting late, only, somehow, I hardly dare 
speak of what follows ; I will try to put it briefly.” 

“ We dined, and talked of Africa rather constrainedly 
the while. There was a ring as Benson brought in the 
coffee, and he came back to saj^ ‘ Father Andre, sir.’ 
At that we went into the study, and I shook hands 
with a stout, quiet-looking clergyman whom I had met 
at Fenton’s house before. We talked indifferently for 
a few minutes and. then there was another ring, and we 
heard Benson go to the door. 

“ ‘ Father Andre,’ said Fenton quickly at that, ‘ I 
have asked you here to-night, without your knowledge, to 
witness something. I hope you will forgive me. There 
are at the door now, I expect, a Dr. Paget, a friend of 
mine, and Mademoiselle Duville, a clairvoyante. She 
does not know for what particular purpose she is here, 
but I intend to put that reliquary in her hands. Please 
say nothing whatever to her first.’ 




OUR LADY’S PAIN 

35 


“ Before he could reply, Benson ushered them in. 
I don’t in the least know what Fenton meant to do, 
but I suppose he would have introduced us and then 
casually got on to the subject, but what followed 
happened so suddenly that even Benson was startled 
out of his usual calm, and did not so much as get out 
of the door before it was all over. 

“ The doctor came in first, a middle-aged, clean-shaven, 
keen-looking man, an agnostic, I believe, and I was just 
wondering why he had preceded the lady, when I saw 
her. It appeared that she had refused to go first, 
indeed almost to enter at all, and the moment she was 
inside, as Fenton was beginning a conventional 
greeting, she seized Paget by the arm and cried out : 

‘ I cannot stay in this room. Dr. Paget, take me out 
instantly ! ’ 

“ We had risen, Andre and I, and stood amazed, but 
at that Fenton, without hesitation, strode across the 
room, pulled open the drawer, and I heard a quick 
snap ! snap ! of catches. Then he turned and took a 
few paces forward, thrust something into the lady’s 
hand, and said : 

“ ‘ What is this. Mademoiselle ? ’ 

“ I could see it was the ivory cross. 

“ And then the most tender and the most wonderful 
thing I have ever seen, or ever expect to see, occurred. 
The girl, for she was only a girl, sank on her knees 
before us and burst into tears, gasping between her 
sobs : 

“ ‘ Oh, my God, my God ! His Mother ! His Mother ! 
. . . Oh, my God ; Oh, my God ! ” 

Michael’s breath, as he lay listening, caught in his 
throat with a little choking sound, but Meredith went 
steadily on nov/. 

“ I don’t know how it happened really, but Andre 
and I were on our knees when Mademoiselle Duville 


36 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


spoke again as well as she could for tears. It was plain 
she was clairvoyante, but it was not like anything I 
should have imagined. 

‘‘ ‘ We are on a hill/ she said. ‘ Why is it so 
dark ? . . . I wish the crowd would keep still ; I can't 
see or hear properly. . . . Oh, don't, don't, don't ! 
Don't look like that, Lady ! What do you see ? . . . 
Oh, my God, a cross, and — and — ... oh ! her face is 
white with pain ! . . . ' 

‘‘ Then Andre got up swiftly and took it away, his 
lips set as he did so, and Mademoiselle Duville fainted 
away." 


The South African night was all about those two on 
the mountains as Meredith finished, for the fire had died 
down to nothing and there was no sound to be heard. 
Then, far away, there arose that faint murmur that an 
African knows so well, the murmur which swells and 
swells into a sudden storm of wind and may pass as 
quickly and as mj^steriousty as it came. 

The wind is coming," said Meredith, we had better 
get into our blankets." 

They rose at that, and each man was busy for a little. 
Then, rolled there in their blankets, the wind swept 
down upon them, and screamed among the rocks, and 
bent the tall grasses which sighed as it passed, so that 
neither could sleep. And then, slowly, slowly, the 
tumult grew less, and the sighing of the grasses died 
down, and the faint moaning that followed passed 
itself at last, until the world slept again. 

“ Father Meredith," said Michael. 

Yes," said the priest. 

But why should you say a votive mass of the 
Sacred Heart on the 5th of February ? " 

Well, you see, Fenton asked me to do so. It was 
on that date, about a month after the incident I have 


OUR LADY’S PAIN 37 


told you, that he went as a Carthusian novice to St. 
Hugh’s Carminster.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Michael, “ and the relic ? ” 

“ He took it with him,” said Father Meredith. 

” But why our Lady ? ” persisted the other. 

“ I do not know,” said Father Meredith, “ unless 
it had been her fragment.” 

Carlile was up early although he was tired. It was 
he who set the small black cross and the two candles on 
the unhewn stone, and who spread the altar cloths 
over the little portable slab that lay on the rough 
surface. He knelt, too, to serve his friend, and heard 
while Father Meredith read of the wounds that were 
given in the House of Friends, and of the piercing of 
that spear on Calvary. And then, when the white 
Host was lifted in the One Sacrifice, he, too, raised 
his head, and looked beyond it to the green of the 
sloping hill-side, and the grey stones of the way, and the 
blue of the morning sky, and the radiance of the sun 
new-risen on a hundred peaks, but saw instead the 
narrow limits of a Carthusian cell, and wondered if 
Fenton had learnt his share yet in the sorrows of God 
and of His Mother. 




38 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


CHAPTER III 
The Call 

I HAVE got leave to set this story, such as it is, upon 
paper, for otherwise I should not attempt it. There 
is a certain intimacy about it, and that in connection 
with the most delicate of all subjects, which would 
compel me to stay my hand if it were not for that 
leave. Indeed, even apart from the question of permis- 
sion, I hesitated a little about the writing, for I have a 
great affection for my friend, and never remember his 
words without a sense of great peace taking possession 
of my heart. That is due, I doubt not, as well to the 
contact of his own quiet and simple personality as to 
the story itself. The story, therefore, may have a 
hard reception from the cold world, and I should be 
sorry for that. And yet — well, it is anciently writ that 
no record of God's word to a soul is void of power. 

At least, I have the right to shepherd what I have to 
say, by trying to suggest the personality of him who has 
made the trivial incidents — chances I had almost 
written, but I will not affect what I do not believe — 
what they are to me. He is an elderly missionary. 
Some time back now, he was a considerable figure at a 
big University, a many-sided man — sportsman, ready 
speaker, litterateur — who made his mark. When he 
crowned his undergraduate years with a brilliant degree 
and was finally given Holy Orders, his friends all said 
of him that he would go very far. I doubt not but 
that he has ; but not as his friends thought. He is a 
missionary in the Lesuto, with a church that seats 
less than 200 souls, and a parish hidden away out of the 


THE CALL 


39 


run of even diocesan events, and hard and unresponsive 
at that. He is in what you would call a backwater, and 
he knows it ; but he is entirely serene and simply happy, 
and very far indeed from being a back number himself. 
He cannot, it is true, keep exactly in touch with the 
movements of modern thought and life, for half his 
stipend goes into his parish, and it would not buy many 
books at best, while a library or the use of another’s 
purchases is out of the question. Some considerably 
worn and second-hand copy of the book of the year that 
we have all discussed, does usually reach him about 
five years late, and it is a little pathetic to find him so 
eager over something we have almost forgotten. And 
yet I have noticed that he invariably has something 
to say about it that occurred to no one else at the time. 

To reach his station, then, you must go through an 
incredibly back-veld dorp, whose railway station is six 
miles from the houses which cluster round an unneces- 
sarily huge and proportionately ugly Dutch Reformed 
church, not yet out of debt. There you get on a horse 
and enter Basutoland after a while, at a place where 
reasonable roads north may be said to end. But you go 
north. Presently you leave even an unreasonable 
road, and again even that, and take to the native veld. 
Before you, at that moment, lies Tulo ea Khotso, a big 
cluster of trees on a hillside that is itself a spur of a 
towering and magnificent amphitheatre of mountains 
and rocks in the central range itself. There are no 
such trees for miles, as the birds know well. They 
greet you as you ride past the little Calvary at the 
entrance and up the double avenue of oaks. There is 
a perpetual melody of innumerable doves ; there is a 
heronry across a field where the orchard slopes down to 
high blue gums and gigantic willows ; and by the house 
itself is a rookery disputed by a host of migratory 
hawks year by year. The tiny humble church is to the 




40 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


left, with thick stone walls and lancet windows, and low 
altar unscreened and unrailed, so that it might be some 
ancient East Anglian anchorage ; and to reach the 
house, you pass through a rickety wooden gate that is 
apparently not meant to shut, into a garden that seems, 
at first sight, one wilderness of tangled rose trees ablaze 
with colour. It has a stoep, on which we were sitting 
in the afternoon shade when my friend told me his 
story. Before the stoep is a square patch where the 
hardiest flowers — phlox, petunia, zinnia, marigolds 
and portulaca — ^riot in a glory. Beyond that again, is 
the orchard ; and past a walnut and an old apricot one 
reaches “ the study.” 

When first I saw it I knew at once that it was the 
place of my dreams. Great tangled brakes of wild 
brier enclose an open space, in the centre of which is 
an old stone well, long disused. Willows whisper above 
it and hang down green streamers almost to the grass. 
To the right is a small thatched shelter of rough 
stone, walled on three sides, and open as to the fourth, 
so that he who sits within at the rough table (and 
there is no other furniture than a rude hanging book- 
shelf and a chair), looks across the open circle and the 
well to where a crucifix, about eight feet high, stands 
silently. Before it is a prie-dieu fixed in the ground, of 
such a height that a man may lean his arms upon it. 
To the right, a little path wanders off among the trees, 
and makes a sudden turn, after fifty yards or so, by 
a great clump of pines. Just there, in a simple wooden 
shrine, stands a white statue of the Mother, and, when 
I saw it first, a clump of the big blue African lily was 
in full bloom at her feet. Past the shrine you go, 
and back a little on your way, till the path ends at 
a sudden break in the trees. From the gap one looks 
across the veld to the mountains — across village after 
village where, for the most part, men do not know 




THE CALL 

41 


either the Son’s perpetual sacrifice or the Mother’s 
endless prayer. The grass, even, is worn away there, 
where a man may stand and gaze, and pray. 

It was not, therefore, that Tulo ea Khotso lacked in 
beauty : indeed it might well have attracted a poet, 
a dreamer, a hermit saint ; but my friend was, if some- 
thing of all these, a good deal more besides. He was 
made for a bishopric. He would have governed well — 
inspired, designed, completed. His was an acute mind, 
eager for conversation and for the exchange of ideas, 
and it was also the mind of a master of men. Here, 
then, all these things were denied him. His little 
flock, despite all his care, was drunken and un- 
imaginative. Beauty in religion, and, still less, wisdom, 
made little appeal to them. Nor was there a white 
man near for a companion, nor a city, nor, as I have 
said, even a library. And yet my friend struck one 
always as the contented, occupied man who has found 
his vocation. 

This, then, was what I tried to say to him as we sat 
the fourth afternoon on the stoep. We had been to 
see a local chief who was making himself a particular 
nuisance at the time, and we had found him swinishly 
drunk. My friend had been incredibly patient, it 
seemed to me ; but I could tell that he was sad at 
heart. So on the stoep I ventured to suggest a 
change. 

" Why don’t you come home to England ? ” I said. 
“You have been out here long enough, and we want 
— without flattery — men like you at home. You ought 
to be vicar of a big city church, or, better still, the 
principal of a theological college, and here you are, 
wasted on Africa.’’ 

“ That’s what you think,’’ said my friend. 

“ But you are not, in a sense, satisfied ? ’’ I 
questioned. 


42 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


I don't see what that has to do with it," he said. 

But," I urged, everyone agrees with me who. 
knows you." 

Do they ? " he answered, placidly. 

‘‘ But, good heavens ! man," I said, almost angrily, 

you ought to think about others and the wider 
interests of the Church." 

Ought I ? " he said. ‘'As to the latter, at least 
I don't think it is I who should do the worrying." 

“ Well," I said, “ if the Bishop won't make a 
move " 

“ I wasn't thinking of the Bishop," he interrupted. 

“ Whom, then ? " I asked. 

“ God," said he, looking straight at me. 

We sat so for a minute or two, and then he sighed and 
looked away, shifting in his chair and crossing his legs. 

“ Look here, Wilfrid," he said, “ I'll tell you my 
story. You may not agree with me, but at least you 
won't think it rubbish. And you will see why I believe 
God sent me here and why I do right to stay here till 
God sends me on." 

So I listened, while the afternoon shadows lengthened 
among the rose bushes. 


“ When I left my theological college," said my 
friend, “ I was in a very perturbed state of mind. 
To speak honestly, I did not want to be a priest at 
all ; I wanted to be a politician and an author. I had, 
however, a fairly defined ambition that, if I were 
ordained, I would certainly be the author as well, and, 
maybe, in the long run, a good deal of the other. 
I was fool enough " (and he smiled reminiscently) 
" to listen to my friends, and I thought I might get 
a seat in the Upper if not in the Lower House one day. 

“ It was not that I was not religious ; I was ; only, 
if anything, that made things worse. I almost hated 


THE CALL 43 


the Church of England. I was not by any means 
exactly like Dostoviesky's inquisitor who would better 
the Christ-plan, but, still, I thought things had changed 
since the first century, and that what we wanted was 
policy and authority. That was why I hated the Church 
of England ; it seemed to me to have neither. I 
suppose I was a zealot, and the Church of England is 
a bad place for zealots — or used to be. Of course, 
I was young, too, and dreamed dreams. 

‘‘ In this temper, then, I got a curacy in a big 
northern town, where there was plenty of ' scope,’ 
and a keen, modern, but spiritual vicar. The one 
disadvantage was that it lay in the bishopric of Hexham, 
where the Bishop was an Early Victorian broad-church- 
man and everything to do with him was laid on the 
same lines. I did not think much about that, however, 
and I went. And the first crisis came at the ordination. 

“You, Wilfrid, will hardly credit that ordination. 
Good heavens, through what has not Almighty God 
brought the Church of England ! I shan’t tell you 
all about it, only little things : how we were allowed 
to go to any inn in the village to put up ; how I found 
my first confrere in the smoke-room, his legs on the 
mantelshelf, a glass of whisky by his side, and a cram 
copy of Old Testament History in his hand ; how we 
dined the first night of our ' Retreat ’ with my lord, 
in evening dress, and were entertained in the drawing- 
room afterwards by some delightful ladies and some 
amateur alfresco conjuring ; how the services were 
deadly, deadly dull ; how every conceivable bit of 
business was muddled ; and how finally a powerful 
dignitary descended upon us from London with an 
address the night before the ordination Sunday, which 
denied the Resurrection of our Lord as the Apostles 
believed in it, and bristled with ridicule of the Catholic 
Church. But that’s what happened. And after that 


44 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


address I flung away into the fields under the stars 
alone ; I prayed under a hedge with tears ; I tired 
myself ; I despaired ; I proposed leaving at once 
for — if you must know — a Jesuit monastery. Then, 
as I walked home, an idea came to me. You may think 
it foolish, but the truth is that I had, at my inn, a tiny 
text-book, given me as a boy at my confirmation 
years before, in which I often found much comfort. 
It was a very simple thing, and you would have thought 
that I should have given it up, since it was most 
dreadfully Protestant, and the texts had no relation 
to the Christian Year or anything of that sort. But 
I hadn’t. I kept it. I glanced in it occasionally, 
and — and this is what you may think foolish — I often 
found that the disjointed, unconnected texts seemed 
to have a strange significance for me. Anyway, as 
I walked back close on midnight that evening, almost 
broken-hearted, certainly in despair, it came into my 
mind that I would try the sortes of that little book. 
If it had no message, I would go ; if it had a message, 
I would abide by it. I quickened my pace. I almost ran 
through the cottages on the outskirts of the little town, 
And in a minute, on my knees by my bedside, I was 
staring at these texts for the evening of that date — 
have not chosen me, hut I have chosen you,' 

“ ' Peace, be still' 

“ So I was ‘ still,’ and I even had peace next day. . . . 

“ Well, off I went to my curacy ; and I think it 
isn’t foolishness to say that I got on rather well. It 
amused and inspired me to find that, even as a deacon, 
I was getting an engagement book full of sermon 
bookings, and some quite big ones. I was elected to 
this and that committee ; I had a good deal to do in 
the planning of a very successful mission for the whole 
city ; I made time for reading ; I was on a library com- 
mittee ; I had a book on the stocks. Don’t think I was 


THE CALL 45 


merely ambitious ; I wasn't ; I had a big slum district, 
and I did not neglect it. But — ^well, you can see the 
sort of man I was when I tell you what happened. 

“ One morning I came down to breakfast, and was 
taken absolutely by surprise to find an episcopal letter 
on the table, asking me, in a dozen lines, to come out 
to the Lesuto. It struck me all of a heap. I had 
always been keen on Missions ; I had even thought I 
might quite possibly go abroad one day ; I had always 
said as much (that was why, I believe, my name had 
got round to the Bishop) ; but to clear clean off to 
a remote corner of Africa — I — just when things were 
opening up so splendidly. ... I tell you, Wilfrid, I 
paced up and down by my untouched breakfast for 
half an hour, in a tumult. 

And then I pulled myself together. Inwardly I 
knew I had already determined not to go, but I said 
to myself that I ought to pray about it. So I went 
over to my prie-dieu in the corner of my little sitting- 
room and knelt mechanically down. There was a prayer 
book open on it, open at the collect for the day, but I 
did not so much as notice it; I just knelt in silence. 
But as I knelt, my mind cleared. I saw perfectly 
plainly that I was playing the coward, and that I must 
find out and do GOD's will in the matter. I had to 
wrestle to get even that plain ; but I succeeded so far at 
last. Then I grew rather afraid, but determined not to 
do either thing on my own choice only. And then, at 
an end, I opened my eyes, and my glance dropped down. 
I read mechanically, but, as I read, the words burned 
themselves into my brain. 

‘‘*0 Almighty GOD, Who alone canst order the unruly 
wills and affections of sinful men ; Grant unto Thy 
people that they may love the thing that Thou commandest, 
and desire that which Thou doest promise ; that so ^ 
among the sundry and manifold changes of the world 


46 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


our hearts may surely there he fixed, where true joys are 
to be found ; through JESUS Christ our Lord. Amen' 

“ You may hardly see the points as I saw them, but I 
wired to the Bishop that day. 

‘‘ Well, Tm boring you, but it's almost over. I came 
out in a month or two with (such is my nature) consider- 
able elation. I had had a big send-off, and I rather 
thought I was doing a fine thing. There's a glamour, 
you know, even about the cross — until you actually 
shoulder it, and then, if there is any glamour at all, 
it is only other people who see it. Anyway, I came out. 

I met my Bishop in Cape Towm, and he was very kind, 
and I was pleased to find so much going on, and a 
distinct sense of bigness about things. I remember 
I determined, really, on my first curacy because of the 
fact that I arrived in the town on a Saturday night 
and was agreeably struck with the crowds of the people 
in the streets. There were enough, I thought, to make 
even a martyrdom worth while. (You see how sly 
the Devil is, Wilfrid !) Well, it was the same at Cape 
Town. I stayed a week, and I set off up-country 
really keen. 

“ I shall never forget that journey. We seemed to get 
farther and farther away from everything. That 
dorp you came through — heavens ! I had to wait there 
three hours for a horse, and I thought to myself, if 

this is my nearest town ! And then when I got 

among the people, after the first pleasure at the scenery 
had worn off, and so on, I was miserable. All the old 
tribal colour had gone. This was no conquest worth 
the making. These hideously dressed women, and civi- 
lised drunken men, were about as far removed from my 
interior and secret picture (drawn chiefly from Rider 
Haggard's novels) as they could be. And my feelings 
came to a head after the first Sunday. I was told it 
was a big congregation — and I could have counted the 


THE CALL 47 


men on my fingers ! And the singing, and the disorder 
and the slovenliness — I was overwhelmed by it all. 

That evening, then, I crept into the church like 
a beaten man. I had that very morning reserved the 
Blessed Sacrament in the little Tabernacle, but I knelt 
before our Lord so oppressed that I could scarcely pray. 
Probably it was largely physical, but I felt as if I could 
not stay ; as if I had no welcome ; as if I were all alone ; 
as if the burden were too great for me. And then, as 
I knelt, a strange sense of the Presence came over me. 
It was almost as if some mighty, irresistible sea flooded 
slowly about me in waves of sensible silence, while 
I sank down, beaten, before it. The bitter-sweet of 
that Presence was too much for me. I think, as I knelt 
in the half-dark, that I was afraid to move, and yet, 
in my fear, I felt as if there was somehow a message 
for me. To pull m3^elf together I began to read my 
Evensong — the catechist had said it before, and I had 
understood nothing in Sesuto — but I scarcely noticed 
what I read, until, at the end of the second Lesson, a 
verse leaped out at me like the Voice of GOD : ‘ I went 
in bitterness, in the heat of my spirit ; but the Hand of 
the Lord was strong upon me,* ** 

There was silence a minute, and then my friend said : 
‘‘ That was twenty years ago, now, and I think that I 
shall stay until GOD bids me go. The Bishop suggested 
moving me once, but he said he did it of himself to give 
me the chance. I had no voice at all from GOD ; so 
I stayed. And — ^well, I have peace.'' 


As I said, association with the personality of my 
friend may make the story what it is to me — a very 
tender and delicate thing. It would be false, I suppose, 
to argue that we should all govern ourselves by such 
possible indications of GOD's will, although perhaps 
the turmoil and stress in which many of us live tend to 


48 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


hinder what ought to be our reading of His ordering of 
little things, without Whom not one sparrow falls to the 
ground. I do not know. But — ^so strange is the power 
of sound — the cooing of many doves is not for me a 
melancholy thing, but instead it has power to conjure 
up the memory of that quiet and hidden sanctuary 
where my friend awaits so tranquilly the Will of 
the Father. 


JONATHAN HAYNES 


49 


CHAPTER IV 
Jonathan Haynes 

No doubt, strictly speaking, there is no story at all in 
the matters about to be related. I should feel, indeed, 
a certain reticence in relating them if it were not for 
the effect they produced upon the mind of the Rev. 
Jonathan Haynes. His was not a particularly 
striking mind, it is true — only the mind of a common- 
place simple person, who did his work obediently and 
methodically, but with a singular absence of success 
or enthusiasm. In consequence, perhaps, the chief 
departure of Haynes from the ordinary was into 
the depressed. He would sit on his stoep at nights, 
and listen to the crickets in the trees, and reflect 
that he was a failure, and his work with him. Then 
he would steel himself, in a commonplace way, with 
a reflection that the Catholic Church had existed 
before him and would exist after him ; that his business 
was not necessarily to succeed, but to go on with what 
was given him to do ; and that if his labours did not 
evangelize the nation, at least he put stones in the road 
along which someone else might tread to its evangeliza- 
tion in the future. It must be admitted that such 
thoughts, however correct, were not inspiring. Hence 
there may be some value in a series of incidents which 
led him for once " to start a wing ” and thank God and 
take courage. 

The three incidents occurred within twenty-four 
hours. Haynes had under his care a huge tract of 
mountainous country somewhere south of the Zambesi, 
a trying land of rivers often impassable in the rains ; 


60 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


of steep rocky paths climbable only to the rough 
mountain ponies ; of difficult dongas which took a 
weary time to negotiate ; of plains, beautiful as all 
the rest, but apt to grow monotonous when one had to 
jog across them at five miles an hour for six or seven 
hours on end. The district was fairly well populated 
however. You might ride a day without seeing much, 
but the big villages were hidden away on the spurs of 
the hills, and the huts were scattered fairly regularly 
where there were no villages. Haynes had the usual 
complement of out-stations to work. He used to figure 
on a fortnightly visit as far as possible, when he would 
arrive overnight and say Night Prayers ; offer the Holy 
Sacrifice, after Confessions as a rule, in the morning ; 
instruct catechumens ; visit the school, and return. 
He had enjoyed it at first, but in five or six years he 
had covered the same ground rather frequently. 
Consequently he contemplated drearily, during three 
extra minutes in bed, the fact that he had to leave for 
a mountain station, six hours away, on the particular 
morning in question. 

His meditations were cut short by a knock on his 
door. ‘‘ Come in,'' he said. Augustino, his boy, en- 
tered. A messenger has come from Mapenzi's village, 
father," he said, ‘‘ and old Samuel is dying. Thej^ say, 
wilt thou take the Sacraments to him as soon as thou 
canst." 

Now Haynes' subsequent reflections and actions 
were characteristic of him. In the first place he was 
distinctly annoyed — almost, even, with old Samuel. 
This all meant at least an hour and a-half added to his 
proposed trek, and it involved haste and inconvenience 
as well. At the same time he might easily have put off 
the longer journey in consequence of the shorter, or he 
might have served Samuel sufficiently by eating his 
breakfast quietly at home, and then taking the Oil and 




JONATHAN HAYNES 

51 


the Reserved Sacrament out of the Church. On the 
contrary, however, but protesting and without any 
enthusiasm whatever, as usual, he got up, dressed 
hastily, and rode off at once. He proposed, not merely to 
communicate the sick man, but also to say Mass in 
his room. Old Samuel had been a pious person, and 
Haynes thought he might like it, if he were conscious. 
If he were too sick for the service, then Haynes resolved 
to celebrate in the next hut. It would be good for the 
place, he thought. 

So he rode off in the early morning, one big grumble 
interiorly, which was profoundly wrong of him, but 
interesting, as it show's how little he expected anything 
in the nature of vision. But perhaps it will be better to 
leave psychological reflections to those who are capable 
of making them. They can conclude precisely what 
they please. 

Old Samuel lived in one of eight huts set on a ridge 
which ran on towards a big hill and itself separated a 
couple of valleys with their attendant streams. It was 
about 8 a.m. when Ha 3 mes rode up, and three naked 
children sprawling in the dust, an energetic hen, 
and a couple of lazy pigs greeted him. He off-saddled 
before anyone came ; then a tall native in a preposterous 
assortment of European clothes emerged from the hut. 
He looked at Haynes inquiringly, but Haynes shook his 
head and said he had come to say Mass in the presence of 
the sick man if he were able to bear it. The young man 
said that he thought that his father would like it, and 
Haynes stooped and entered. In the hut were four old 
women, one of them Samuel’s wife, a younger woman, 
the latest catechumen, and a good half dozen children, 
Haynes greeted them collectively and turned to the 
comer. It was rather dark after the sun outside, 
but he made out a pile of blankets, and a head appearing 
from a kaross, and he went across to it. The old. 


52 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


wrinkled face looked at him with bright, fevered eyes, 
and lighted up as it recognised him. Haynes bent over 
him, strangely tender. 

“ They sent for me, and I came at once,” he said. 
“ Are you in pain, Samuel ? ” 

The old eyes gazed at him as if uncomprehendingly. 

“ I have brought the holy Oil, Samuel,” went on the 
priest, “ for you know you will be going to see our Lord 
soon, and I must prepare you for your journey. And I 
wondered if you would like me to say Mass here, so th^t 
you might hear it again before you go. Would you ? ” 
This time the head nodded once vigorously ; but there 
was nothing said. 

“ I am glad, Samuel,” said Haynes ; " but first there 
is one thing you should try to do. You know that 
before we receive our Lord we should make our heart 
clean for Him. Would you not like ” 

“ Confession,” interrupted the old man, eagerly, 

Haynes sat back and looked round. For the first 
time he noticed the old soap-box covered with a white 
handkerchief, the two candles stuck to the lids of old 
tins, and the Crucifix hung on the wall behind. The 
careful preparation moved him somehow. " Will 
you all go out,” he said, “ while I hear Samuel’s 
confession ? ” 

The children hastily, the women ponderously, left him, 
while he unstrapped his roll and put on cotta and stole. 
He bent over Samuel. The old man was weaker he 
thought. ” I will say the Confession for you,” he said 
gently, “ and then you can try to tell your sins as slowly 
as you like.” The old face nodded again. “ I confess 
to Almighty God ” began Haynes carefully. . . . 

He called the others in while he was making ready 
for Unction and the Mass ; and after the psalm and the 
prayer, it seemed to him that it was in a strange 
stillness that he approached the pile of blankets with 




JONATHAN HAYNES 

53 


the Oil. Firmly, with wet thumb, he pressed back the 
eyelids and anointed the old eyes. By this anointing, 
and His most loving mercy, the Lord forgive thee all 
that thou hast sinned by sight.'’ Haynes noticed 
the tears in them as they opened again. Then the 
rest — the gnarled, old hands and the hard feet, already 
cold, especially. Haynes remarked that he must 
make haste. 

He was at the rude altar now. Quickly but reverently 
he pronounced the words, and at last bent himself for 
the Sanctus. The sound of a sheep-bell startled him : 
he had not thought that they would remember that. He 
straightened himself, and began the Canon. In the 
stillness a quavering voice broke the silence, and they 
all took it up. They were singing, Blessed is He that 
Cometh," as at a service in church, and without instruc- 
tion. Haynes was strangely moved again. 

The bell rang out once more, and again came the 

surprise. '' O Lamb of God " that quavering voice 

began. Could it possibly be Samuel ? But surely he had 
not the strength ! Haynes wished he could turn to see. 

But in a few minutes the opportunity came as he 
turned with the Sacrament, and he was amazed by 
what he saw. The old man was sitting up in bed, his 
eyes glistening, his arms outstretched. Haynes 
moved quickly towards him, and sank to his knees. 

The Body of our Lord JESUS Christ which was given 
for thee," he said, in the musical Sesuto 

Then the Cup ; and the old man sank back with 
those bright eyes closed and a smile on his face. 
Haynes returned to the altar, and the drama moved 
to its close. At the Benediction his eyes wandered 
against his wil 1 to that comer, and he saw a movement 
as the toil-worn hand moved in the sign of the Cross. 
It failed, he thought, to complete it, as he turned back 
to the altar. 


64 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


During the last Gospel he heard a movement 
behind him, and as soon as he could, he turned again 
to see. From where he stood he could see that there 
was no need to go again to the comer. Old Samuel 
was not there. . . . 

About II a.m. Haynes got into the saddle for his 
long ride. He had arranged for the native priest to be 
called for the funeral, and there was nothing more 
for him to do. They all came out to see him off, and 
he rode slowly away. He had no one to talk to for 
six hours, and it proved a trying ride. The sun was 
unusually fierce, and the way rougher from Mapenzi's 
than it would have been from the centre station. Three 
times he had the lamentable business of climbing 
painfully up and up a rocky valley and over a bleak 
crest, only to find another long ascent before him ; 
and when at last he dropped down on Ledinmane he 
was as tired as a man could be. They gave him a hut, 
however, and he got out his bread and a tin of sardines and 
sat down to that and his kettle of tea, content with the 
food and the rest if only he might be left alone. But 
that was not to be. He had not finished his last cup 
when the catechist appeared. It was a penitent ; he had 
come very far over the mountains, and as the Father 
was celebrating among the people an hour farther on 
in the morning, he begged to be shriven that night, 
there and then. 

Haynes looked at his pipe wistfully and at his roll 
with some despair, but he was priest enough to give a 
gruff assent. It was a perfunctory business altogether, 
partly because the man was very ignorant, and partly 
because Haynes was extremely tired ; but it was over 
at last. The man got up slowly and departed with a 
little limp, and Haynes, with a sigh, pulled his cotta 
over his head. Ridiculously, he stopped with it on 
his arms, staring at something on the floor. Then 


JONATHAN HAYNES 


55 


he bent to see. He was right. It was a half-footprint 
marked in blood. There were three others, altogether, 
on the way to the door. The man had indeed come far. 

It is a changeable climate, and next morning it was 
cold enough to freeze the marrow in one’s bones. After 
all, the hut was at least 7,000 feet high in the mountains, 
and it was early winter, but neither reflection helped 
Haynes at all. It was too cold to wash much, especially 
as he had to be in the saddle with the early dawn for an 
hour’s ride to the place of the Station ; and he put on 
his clothes over his pyjamas, and his coat and a blanket 
over them, in a vain attempt to keep warm. The wind 
blew fiercely in his face, and the ground was pocketed 
with snow. The path was not level for a hundred 
yards, and the ponies had to pick their way over slippery 
stones in the streams and up the frozen earth-trails like 
so many cats. The catechist rode ahead, and Haynes 
tied his reins to his coat, and put his hands in his 
pockets to keep out the cold. His horse could only 
walk, and besides he did not much care at that moment 
what happened. Half-way there, however, he woke 
up to some sort of interest, because from his high 
station he could see all the valley, and he noticed 
moving specks of red blankets and black coats dotted 
here and there about it. He and his companion 
reached the village at last, however, and then came 
the heart-breaking wait on an empty stomach while 
the congregation arrived. Finally, nevertheless, he 
could begin the preparation with the communicants, 
and then it angered him to find that they had for- 
gotten the simple prayers he had taught them on 
his last visit. He reflected, however, that that had 
been over a month ago, and kept silent. But on 
his way to the door, he got another sense of 
shock. Kneeling there was old Marta. Now Marta 
was as stupid as a native of seventy converted at 


66 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


sixty-five can be, and that is saying a great deal. 
Haynes had always half thought that he had done 
wrong to have her confirmed ; for instance, on his last visit 
only, she had actually broken down in the Lord's 
Prayer. He determined to tell her not to receive 
that day. Then he changed his mind again. He would 
make an address at the Offertory, and yet another 
short one just before the Canon, and then his 
responsibility would end. But he was in a poor frame 
of mind as he went to the Altar. 

He grew worse as things went on. The singing was 
incredibly awful. There was a woman at the back 
somewhere with an unbelievable voice who would 
sing loudly and persistently. It was literally awful " ; 
Haynes felt that he could not endure it to the end. 
Fortunately, as his endurance was at the breaking- 
point, the opening hymn concluded, and he began. 

At the Offertory he noticed that old Marta had come 
right up to the front. Perhaps it was that that made 
him speak so coldly and judicially. Anyway, the 
upturned blank faces gazed at him stonily from where 
their owners sat or crouched on the mud floor. It 
vras not a successful sermon. 

But the collection finished it. He had drummed 
into his people the value of making some offering to 
God when they received the great Gift from God, until 
he was tired, and then that day they handed him the 
bag with one “ tikki " in it. . . . He set himself to go 
on in a kind of despair. 

Right up to the beginning of the Canon he was in 
two minds as to whether he should (horribly un- 
orthodoxically) say anything, or whether he should 
leave them alone ; but the sight of Marta, as he said 
the Comfortable Words, decided him. She really was too 
ignorant; he must impress upon her what was to happen. 
So he turned, after the Benedictus, for a word or two. 




JONATHAN HAYNES 

57 


They were never spoken. As he turned he saw that 
old Marta had changed her position yet once more. 
She was stretched at full length on the ground ; her 
black and wrinkled hands were held out and work- 
ing convulsively within a few inches of the edge of his 
alb, and the tears were streaming down her face. 
Her lips were working too. Then he caught her 
prayer. “ JESUS — JESUS — JESUS ” — she was say- 
ing ; that was all. The crude oleograph on the wall 
behind the mud altar looked all blurred to him as he 
turned back without a word. 


Somehow or another the sum-total of the three inci- 
dents did not strike Haynes till he got back home. He 
was alone at supper, but his boy noticed nothing until he 
brought in the cheese. Then he saw that his master 
had put down his knife and was sitting back from the 
table, his hands on the edge of it, staring hard at nothing. 
He did not touch the cheese either. Instead he rose 
suddenly and went into church. There he knelt 
before the Tabernacle for a long time in silence ; and 
thanked God and took courage, as I have said. 


58 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


CHAPTER V 
Cattle Money 

Sekeke had been walking since daybreak, and he was 
mightily tired. He had come from the camp by a 
path that would never run straight, but travelled up 
and down, over hills and down to streams, as it pleased. 
An hour ago, however, he had reached the worst part, 
for, striking the Caledon river as a tiny stream a foot 
broad, he had just followed it to the spring where it 
rose, and then pushed straight on up the mighty pass, 
through the two great hummocks of rock, each five 
hundred feet high, that seem to guard it, and had now 
come out on the flat plateau above. It was a wonder- 
ful view, though Sekeke hardly appreciated it. Due 
west, endless jagged peaks pushed up into the clear sky, 
and one seemed to be above them all ; due east, 
there was a rapid fall of thousands of feet, a sheer drop 
in places, to the Free State. Sekeke had to follow the 
little footpath that led down. He would sleep in a 
cave that night, and by chance at a store after that. 
The third day he would come to the dorpy and five miles 
beyond the dorp lay the farm to which he was 
journeying. Despite all that, though he could not see 
the farm, it looked as if you could throw a stone into 
the dorp itself from where he sat. 

He took off the old deer-stalker which he had got 
at about half as much again as its original value from 
a Jew in Kimberley, and wiped it carefully with a red 
handkerchief. Then he drew a small purse of very 
poor leather (5s. at the store — is. in England, only 
no one would buy them there) from his pocket, and 




CATTLE MONEY 

59 


counted out slowly one, two, three, . . . ten pounds. 
Certain that they were safe, he counted them all back 
again and put the purse once more into his pocket, 
and then, and only then, did he take out his 
breakfast, some mealie bread and a piece of dried 
cooked mutton, washed down by a drink from the 
stream at his feet. What could a man want more ? 
And since he was a catechumen, he made the sign of the 
Cross before he ate. 

Sekeke’s affairs, from being extremely simple, had 
grown profoundly complicated about a year before. 
He had been born in Kimberley, but had long since 
lost track of any near relations, and had drifted on to 
that Free State farm far below as little more than a boy. 
His life really began there. He had never been properly 
taken on, and he was not properly paid ; but he did 
odd jobs, and shared a corner of a hut on the location, 
and got his skoff and occasional pay from the farmer, 
and was happy. Occasionally his master threw him 
an old shirt in lieu of a month’s pay, and occasionally, 
in very good times, gave him a sheep or two, and once 
even a skinny heifer which appeared to be about to die. 
But it did not die ; Sekeke nursed it a great deal better 
than he would have nursed himself. Also he sold his 
sheep and kept his shillings, and bought cattle as he 
could, until, a year ago, he had had five beasts that ran 
with the herd of a Mosuto headman in return for the 
milk of the two cows among them. 

Sekeke had not collected beasts for nothing. In 
the location was a girl, young, tall, well developed, 
whom Sekeke loved. He had visions sometimes, as 
he lay wrapped in his blanket at the end of the day, of 
Agnesi nursing his baby or bringing the mealies in 
from his fields. Of course, as yet he had neither, but 
that was where the cows came in. Agnesi’s father 
had promised her to him for five beasts and five sheep. 


60 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


and his friend the headman had promised the corner of a 
field and the place for a hut and five sheep as soon as 
the girl was his. It sounds a bit complicated, but it 
was not so to Sekeke. He had only to persuade the 
headman to give him the five sheep first, and the thing 
was done. To that end, a year ago, he had begged a week's 
holiday from his master and set out for the hills via 
the location. 

First, however, a word about Agnesi. She was a 
Christian, and of her family none other except Gabrieli, 
aged six. Her grandfather, however, was a catechu- 
men, and her mother, since dead, had also been baptised. 
Her father went to the Mission service on Sundays 
sometimes, and he knew what he ought to do at heart, 
only he didn't do it. It was Agnesi who had brought 
Sekeke to church ; but Sekeke had asked for baptism 
of his own accord. Father Mark had signed him, and 
undertaken his instruction, and he had got something 
into the boy's head, but not much as yet ; not enough, 
anyway, to prevent what happened when Sekeke came 
to the location on his way to the hills. 

It was not all Sekeke's fault, though, of course, he was 
guilty. Anyway, there had been a drinking, and 
Sekeke, excited with the prosperity of his affairs, had 
gone to it. Then there had been a quarrel and a fight, 
with disastrous consequences, and Sekeke had been 
arrested among others. There was enough to sho^^ 
that he had been of the party, but not enough to secure 
a big conviction. He got £io or two years, and was 
lucky at that. 

In his distress Sekeke turned first to Father Mark. 
He presented himself, shamefacedly, and tried to 
borrow £io. The Father simply had not got £io to 
lend him, and he was obliged to send him sorrowfully 
away, and after that Sekeke returned to the farm and 
tried the farmer. Yes, he would lend him £io — on the 


CATTLE MONEY 


61 


security of the five beasts. It sounded all right, and 
the beasts were driven in and the fine paid. But what 
of Agnesi ? Memories of Kimberley helped him out. 
He would go there, earn his money in the mines, redeem 
his cattle, marry his girl, and be happy yet ! Such is 
the simplicity of the negro that it seemed accomplished 
when he and she went, to the priest for a blessing on 
the eve of his setting out. Father Mark smiled on 
them, read a bit of sound advice to Sekeke, hung a 
medal round his neck, and sent him out. 

All this had been a year ago. Sekeke was on his 
way now to redeem the cattle. He did not know any- 
thing about it, but he was a kind of Jacob. And his 
troubles were to come. 

Three days after Sekeke had climbed that pass he 
came up to the farm beyond the dorp. The veld was 
rather dry and the sun pretty hot, and the farmer a 
little annoyed because the ploughing was a slow 
business. Sekeke found him on the big field by the 
spruit, and swung off his hat, all smiles. 

“ Monro, baas,” he said. 

" Morro,” growled the farmer, without recognising 
him. 

Sekeke waited, still smiling. Presently he sat down, 
still smiling. He was in no particular hurry ; the 
white man would attend to him when he was ready, 
and besides he recognised two of the oxen in the team. 

But at the next furrow he was in the way, and the 
vials of the white man's wrath were poured out. 

“ What the devil do you want, you black nigger, you. 
Get out of the way, confound you ! ” he yelled. 

“ Right, baas,” said Sekeke, and then (still smiling), 
“ I think baas forget I.” 

“ Who are you ? ” asked the farmer. 

“ I Sekeke,” said our hero, grinning all over his face. 
” I come from Kimberley, baas, for my oxen.” 


62 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


Ho, you're Sekeke, are you ? " said the farmer. 

Oh, I can see you are now, you black scoundrel. 
Been killing any more men ? " 

‘‘ No, baas," said Sekeke, as if it were the best joke 
in the world, but I want my oxen." 

‘‘ Your oxen ? " said the farmer. Confound you ; 
but where's my £io ? You've not got that, anyway, 
and you can't have your beasts till then." 

It was the moment of Sekeke 's triumph, longed for 
during a year of servitude, and it was very sweet. Out 
came the cheap purse, and out the ten sovereigns. 

Here is the £io, baas," said he. Now I have my 
oxen." 

The white man counted them heavily. He was 
extremely annoyed, as he had reckoned on the beasts, 
which were worth a great deal more than £io, and his 
mind was working quickly. Suddenly he saw light. 

What's this for? " he asked with a leer. 

“ My oxen, baas," said poor Sekeke, with a horrible 
fear at his heart, puzzled though he was, for it seemed 
straight enough to him. You lend me £io for my 
oxen, and said I get my oxen back when I bring de 
money to baas," he stammered, losing his grammar 
every minute. 

‘‘ You black scoundrel," roared the farmer, assuming 
anger to cover the injustice, and what about the food 
your beasts have been eating all this year ? Who is 
to pay for that ? Five pounds at least they've eaten 
this year. I'll have another fiver, or you don't touch 
one." 

Fiver, baas ? I not got any more," stammered poor 
Sekeke. 

'' Well, then, what you come worrying me for ? Get 

out of it, you nigger. Get off my farm, or I'll put 

the police on you. Do you hear ? Get off." 

But my ten pounds, baas — ^give me," said Sekeke. 


CATTLE MONEY 


63 


'' Oh, no, you don't, my beauty," answered the farmer, 
slipping them into his pocket. ‘‘You owe me these. 
Go and get another five, and then you'll get your oxen. 
Do you hear ? Go ! " 

The world had never been quite so black to Sekeke 
before as he plodded back to the location. He was hard at 
work on a problem which puzzles the understanding of 
several million black men in South Africa, the problem 
of the white man's justice and the white man's logic. 
Sekeke was much too well tamed to think of revenge or 
the law, even if he could have got it ; no, it seemed to 
him that he was up against the blackest, most iron fate, 
and that the sun had ceased to shine in the sky. So he 
came into the location on leaden feet, and even the deer- 
stalker had lost its glory. Agnesi therefore saw him before 
he saw her. She was grinding, in her old blanket, and 
she promptly ran inside the reed fence and put on her 
new one. Then she came to greet him, as carelessly 
as only a native girl can. 

“ Hullo, Sekeke," she said (or something like it in 
Sesuto). ‘‘ Hast thou returned ? " 

“ Yes," said Sekeke, and was silent. 

“ And what is the news of the great town," she 
asked, a little surprised at his tone. 

“ Good," said he, and sat down on a log. 

“Oh," said she, and went over to her grinding of 
meal without a word more. 

But it was more than human nature could bear. She 
glanced at him sideways. “ Thou hast new clothes," 
said she. 

“ Have I ? " said he, and then, fumbling in a side 
pocket, he drew out a parcel wrapped in newspaper, 
and from it two hat-pins representing big swallows in 
amazing flight. “ This is for thee," he said.' 

Agnesi had never worn a hat in her life, and could 
not pin one on if she tried ; but she was overjoyed. 


64 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


Tanki, tanki, very much/' she said, and pinned them 
into her blanket, and then, pride worn down, she came 
over to him. Hast thou the ten pounds ? " she 
asked. 

Come and walk," he said, and got up, and told 
his tale as they went. Father Mark found them behind 
his fence, she sobbing, he stretched sullenly on the 
ground, ten feet away. 

Now this is not the story of Father Mark, and so we 
are not concerned with what he said. It was he, 
however, who suggested a visit to the church, before 
he rode off, with wrath in his heart, to a fruitless 
interview with the farmer, by whom he was mag- 
nificently and gratuitously insulted. And in church 
Agnesi had her inspiration. 

They were kneeling together at the back, and our 
Lady's picture hung above them. Agnesi noticed it. She 
looked at it fixedly, and she remembered some of the 
stories Father Mark had often told them, to the despair 
of some of his brethren. 

Sekeke," she said, the Father told us once how 
our Lady heard the prayer of a girl who asked her, 
and sent much cattle to a man in need. I do not 
remember all his words, but he said the Mother of God 
stands near the throne of God, and whatever she asks 
of God, God gives. Let us therefore ask that she may 
give you five pounds. 

‘‘ I am not washed," said Sekeke. 

" But I am," said Agnesi, and I will pray." 

Pray then," said Sekeke. 

Agnesi looked up at the picture, and her courage 
failed her. She crouched on the ground, and said 
nothing. Thus it was Sekeke who prayed, and, not 
knowing what else to say, he said : 

" O Mother of God, thou knowest I cannot get the 
cattle with which to satisfy the father of Agnesi. I 




CATTLE MONEY 

65 


want five pounds. Please give me five pounds, for 
Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.” 

Agnesi bent lower and trembled. She rather expected 
the appearance of an angel with five new-minted 
sovereigns, and she believed enough to be afraid of 
his approach. \Vhat Sekeke expected no man can say. 
Anyway, they waited about a quarter of an hour, 
and then he said abruptly, “ Come.” They went out. 
Outside he turned on her quickly. “ Agnesi,” he said, 
“ I go to the mines now to earn the five pounds. It 
is a bad time, and I, maybe, will be away another year. 
Meanwhile thou art to wait for me, and if thou hast 
anything at all to do with another while I am not 
here, I will beat thee on my return. Farewell.” And 
there and then he turned and left her, and set out 
for the mines. 

Agnesi wept at such an extraordinary exhibition of 
energy. 

In astonishment Father Mark put back the purse, 
out of which he had been trying to conjure five gold 
sovereigns and thought again regretfully of the dangers 
of the city. Probably only our Lady was content ; 
it must have been her plan 

Anyway, the absolutely unexpected happened, an 
occurrence not in itself miraculous, but one which had 
no other explanation to the principals concerned. There 
is one great and golden daydream perpetually 
before the eyes of all boys who work in the mines, 
and that is that by chance they may find a diamond, 
and become rich in a moment, not on its value, but 
on the bonus given to the finder. Sekeke went straight 
from Agnesi to the dorp, and slept that night on a 
pile of skins outside a store. The next day he was 
taken on by a labour agent, and the next left for Kimber- 
ley in one of those open carriages which the S.A.R. 
provide for natives. In due course, having been much 


66 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


inspected and marshalled and cursed, he and his gang 
arrived at the Diamond City and went out to the mines. 
For a week he laboured, chiefly underground, and fed 
and slept with the rest of the boys in their place, and 
on the eighth day he had not been five minutes in the 
mines when he picked up a diamond. It happens 
to be the simple truth that it was the eighth of December. 
Of course, the settlement of the business took some time; 
but one day the bewildered Sekeke was handed his 
discharge and eighty-five pounds in the central police 
station at Kimberley. The diamond was sold in 
England for four figures, but Sekeke never knew that. 

The news reached the location on the Eve of the 
Epiphany, and it was brought by Sekeke himself. 
Agnesi had just come from the spring with an empty 
paraffin-tin of water on her head, when a man on a 
horse rode hard up to her door. It was Sekeke, gloriously 
dressed in full European clothes. 

‘‘ Greeting," said Agnesi. 

“ Greeting, Agnesi," said Sekeke. I have come 
for thee. See, here is a handkerchief and a blouse 
and a skirt for thee from the big city, and this is my 
horse that I ride, and I have redeemed my cattle. 
A boy is driving them even now to thy lather. And 
I have much money more, for oxen and sheep, and it is 
well with us for ever." 

Agnesi recovered slowly. But how didst thou 
get it ? " she asked finally. 

Thy Mary showed me a diamond," he said, as one 
who describes the commonplace. 

They paid their thanks, doubtless, but Father Mark 
did not see them. What he did see was the thanks- 
giving of Gabrieli and the old grandfather. The 
two were inseparables, and the manner of their thanks- 
giving was as follows : Father Mark had a crib in the 
church, and that night, after supper, as he said his night 


CATTLE MONEY 67 


prayers, he heard steps at the door. He turned from 
his place to see who should be visiting the church so 
late, and from his own dark corner he saw Gabrieli 
and the old man come in. They adored the Sacrament, 
but went straight over to the crib. There they knelt 
awhile, fixing eyes of wonder on the three figures, 
and on the ox and ass. Then the old man, kneeling 
straight up, raised his hand in the old half- forgotten 
royal salute, and Gabrieli stretched out his towards 
the manger and deposited there a sticky handful of 
sweets, which had been his share, up to date, of 
Sekeke's treasure. 




68 

THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


CHAPTER VI 
Father Francis 

Courtenay was new to the Mission, and, frankly, it 
astonished him. He had a kind of notion, when his 
letter of introduction had secured for him an invitation 
for the week or so while he waited for his boat, that he 
should be bored a little by the spectacle of a suc- 
cession of religious activities from which he could 
not escape. He imagined, dimly, that there would be 
frenzied preaching to crowds of evil-smelling natives, 
a continual round of Bible classes, and a general 
atmosphere of a parish room combined with a church 
vestry. But there were none of these things. The 
talk in the Common Room and at table was frankly 
secular, and ranged from an animated discussion of the 
works of modern fiction to the perpetual problem of 
the European complications. (It was not so long 
before the Great War, and the Mission was not a little 
involved in Kaiserism.) There was a great deal of 
church-going, it is true, but Courtenay was not in the 
least pressed to attend, and when he did so he found a 
variety of services which struck him as being totally 
unlike anything he had expected. Not that he knew 
exactly what he did expect ; but vague accounts of 
the Welsh Revival probably accounted for a good deal. 
Well, there was nothing revivalistic about the services. 
The morning ones were mostly silent, and in the rest 
Plainsong figured largely — which is a far cry from either 
Moody and Sankey or Torrey and Alexander. Then 
the laymen were largely busy in rational secular 
employments ; the hospital was the same as a normal 




FATHER FRANCIS 

69 


hospital usually is ; and the priests were busy, for the 
most part, on strange errands which took them out on 
bicycles in the heat of the day, or equally mysteriously 
into church. Courtenay accompanied one who rode for 
about four hours over unspeakable paths for the sake 
of a sick-visit, and his mind was a conflict of emotions on 
the way back. He was extraordinarily hot, and had 
swallowed (or felt as if he had) quantities of sand ; 
why, then, men should devote their lives to that sort 
of thing, for no conceivable reward, was a matter 
beyond his stock of reason or religion. 

For six days he heard no sermons at all, but on the 
seventh came one which filled him with amazement. 
It was preached by a newcomer, and therefore through 
an interpreter, so that Courtenay was able to follow 
it. The day chanced to be the Sunday within the 
Octave of St. Michael, and the sermon had taken for 
granted angels and devils and supernatural things 
generally to such an extent that Courtenay could hardly 
believe his ears. Did these people believe in such 
things ? He was resolved on some sort of inquiry. 

After dinner he got an admirable opportunity. It 
was suggested that they should have the coffee on the 
verandah, and a layman had produced some excellent 
cigars — cheap enough out there. They all sat in easy 
lounge chairs, and Courtenay lazily contemplated the 
native huts, the glistening cocoanuts, and the still water 
of the creek, as the glory of a full moon illuminated 
the tropical world. Odd sounds came up to them 
without destroying the sense of stillness — the bark of 
a dog, the occasional shrill voice of a woman, the 
rustle of the leaves in a faint breeze. It was all very 
different from the matter-of-fact world. Courtenay 
commenced operations : 

“You see a side of the native of which most Euro- 
peans never catch more than a glimpse, I suppose ? ” 


70 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


he said, vaguely, without addressing anyone in 
particular. 

The Canon moved impatiently. He disliked that 
sort of thing. Oh, I don't know," he said. Any- 
way, I must be going. Good night, my lord ; good 
night, everybody." 

Courtenay felt rebuked. He turned towards the 
Bishop and opened a frontal attack apologetically. 

I say," he said, ‘‘ I hope I did not ask anything 
impossible, don't you know ; but your doings out here 
interest me tremendously. You seem to take so much 
for granted that most of us don't so much as consider 
any longer, and I thought, perhaps, among the natives 
you saw a side of things that we never see. All these 
stories, now, about African magic and devils and so 
on — do you believe them ? " 

The Bishop looked at him with a half-smile. It 
would^absurd to say that one believed in ally** he said ; 
'‘but I fancy you can't be long in this country without 
feeling that the commonplace explanation does not 
get to the bottom of everything ; and you see we have 
to deal with a people to whom murder and witchcraft, 
and the power of the witch-doctor, and the truth of 
dreams, are as real as electricity and radio-activity 
are to you. We can't ignore it, and so we investigate 
a little, and sometimes one gets up against the im- 
possible that as far as the evidence goes has happened — 
and there it is." 

Courtenay looked interested. Tell me just what 
you mean, can you ? " he asked. 

‘‘ Well," said the Bishop, most Africans believe, 
for instance, that a witch-doctor can enter a locked 
and barred house without disturbing locks or bars, 
and leave again, having worked his mischief with 
the place as secure behind him as if he had never, 
entered.'' 




FATHER FRANCIS 

71 


Courtenay smiled frankly. Oh/' he said, '' Devant 
does that most days at 2.30 and 7.30 in St. George's 
Hall ; but you don't mean to tell me it can be done 
here, in a hut like that, on the bare ground under the 
trees," and he waved his hand towards the town. 

From somewhere or another a woman's scream came 
up to us, and we listened a moment after it had died 
away. Then the face of the Bishop was grave as he 
said : Don't ask me ; I don't know. I only know I 
had to move a teacher from a promising village only 
the other day because, irrefutably, his hut, windowless, 
and locked as to the door with a new Yale lock I gave 
him, was. entered three nights running and the worst 
of mischief done. I don't know how it happened ; 
I only know what I had to do." 

But " began Courtenay, and then broke off. 

Well," he said at last, '' dreams and so on — do they 
ever come true ? " 

The Bishop put down his pipe and settled back in 
his chair. ‘‘ I'll tell you the strangest story I've known 
of that sort, if you like, and one of the most beautiful, 
too. I don't know what you will make of it, but I 
don't mind your hearing." 

Courtenay and I looked our eagerness, and this is 
what we heard : 

Some years ago," said the Bishop, ‘‘ when I was 
priest in charge of an up-country station, a new man came 
out from England to join us. Father Mallory was his 
name, but we called him Father Francis, after his 
patron saint, for whom he had a great love. He was a 
slight-built man, and did not look a bit strong ; but I 
never saw anyone out here so zealous before. He 
loved his work, and he had the gift of being able to 
relate every bit of it to the great central theme, so that 
even close study of Chinyanja, with the glass at ninety 
degrees in the shade, had attractions for him. What 




72 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


was more, he got on wonderfully with the natives. 
Before he could say anything more than a phrase or 
two he would be out among the huts, and you would 
come across him, sitting on the ground playing with 
the children, with all the zest in the world. That 
was why ‘ Father Francis ’ stuck to him, I believe. 
The people loved him instinctively, and he them. 
He used to spend hours in the day just praying. 
None of us on the station felt otherwise, I fancy, than 
that he had the makings of a saint. 

'' He preached a course in the village church that 
Lent, I remember, in a curious mixture of English and 
Chinyanja. The amazing thing was that the church 
was crowded, and that they all seemed to understand 
him as he sat there, talking quietly, like a man who 
sees the thing he describes. From my place in the 
stalls I used to watch the astounding performance 
with a half-text running in my head : ‘ Every man 

heard in his own language in which he was born.' 

‘‘But you don't mean ..." broke in Courtenay. 
The Bishop silenced him by a kind of gesture, and 
went on. 

“ You will guess, of course, what comes next. The 
fever got him, and he couldn't shake it off. He only 
lasted a day or two. I was with him all the last day, 
and he died like a man who sleeps, his fingers round 
his beads, towards evening. We buried him in the 
little cemetery in the morning, after a requiem in 
church, all the village following, and we settled down 
to our loss. I remember I wrote to his people ; he 
had been out seven months. 

‘‘ About a week later I was sitting writing in my 
study, when I heard the entrance call spoken outside. 
I said ‘ Come in,' and there walked in one of our best 
boys, a tall lad, about seventeen then. I ought to tell 
you that we had a small school on the place, and that the 


FATHER FRANCIS 


78 


boys sat in the front rows in church, just beyond the 
rood screen, which was native work, and open, the 
rood held up by a pillar or two. 

“ ' Hulloa, Lawrence,’ said I, ‘ what do you want ? ” 

“Now a native rarely answers you at once on the 
subject of his visit ; but on this occasion the boy said 
instantly : 

“ ‘ Father, I have seen a vision, and I want to tell it you.’ 

" I looked at him sharply. His eyes looked into mine 
absolutely steadily, and there was that about him 
which caught my attention. I was very busy, but I 
put my pen down, leaned back in my chair, and said : 
‘ Well, Lawrence, and what was it ? ’ ’’ 

The Bishop was silent a while. I stirred in my 
wicker chair, and the creaking recalled him. 

“ I’m sorry,’’ he said, “ but I was wondering how to 
tell it you. I had better say just what Lawrence said, 
as far as I can remember his words. I don’t attempt 
to explain them, mind. This is what he said : 

“ ‘ It was in the night, father, and I was sleeping be- 
tween Ambrose and John, as thou knowest. Suddenly, 
in my sleep, I felt cold, and I heard a lizard stir in 
the thatch, and I awoke. Then I saw that I was 
not in the hut, but in the church, and that the 
altar was lit with the lights as for Mass. I wondered 
to myself at being there, and looked round. Yes, all 
the other boys were there, and many people, and all 
looked towards the altar as if they waited for something. 
Then did I look again, and then, my father, I grew 
very afraid. At first I did not know why I was afraid, 
but then I understood. Thou knowest the screen in 
the church, my father ? Well, I knelt near it, where is 
my place, and the altar seemed but a little way beyond 
it ; but I knew, on a sudden, that it was very far. I 
grew cold as that knowledge came to me. It seemed 
to me that a great gulf stretched in between us and 


74 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


the holy place, and yet I could see easily. And, 
as I feared, the door from the sacristy opened and 
the boys came in for Mass. I did not know any of the 
boys, father, but they came, the Cross and the lights 
and the incense, all but the serving boy and the priest, 
and instead of them came a man whom also I did not 
know. I could see his face very clearly, my father, and 
I should know it again. He had a small brown beard 
and blue eyes which looked through you, and I 
noticed particularly that he was dressed in a very 
patched cassock, my father. He came right down 
to the steps under the big cross on the screen, 
and he looked down at us boys sitting below him. 
And then he spoke, my father, and his words were 
these : “ Father Mallory is here and waiting to say his 
Mass. Which of you boys will serve him ? ” At 
that my heart turned to ice, and my feet were like lead. 
I felt that I wanted to jump up and say; “ I,” father, 
but I dared not move. And as I sat I was not in 
the church, but in my bed, and the lizard still rustled 
in the thatch.’ ” 

“ Well, I questioned him,” said the Bishop, ” but 
I could get no more out of him than that. He was 
curiously particular about the face of the man who 
had spoken, and that was all. I feared he might 
have some suspicion as to why he had seen that thing 
and so I asked him right out at last : ‘ And what 
do you think it means, Lawrence ? ’ At that he 
stared at me without answering for quite a long time, 
and then said : ‘ I do not know, my father. But I 
shall not die. I should have had to die if I had stood 
up.’ ” 

The clock in the church tower near struck slowly 
just then, and we allowed it to finish without a word. 
Then : “ Well ? ” said Courtenay, a little impatiently, 
I thought. 


FATHER FRANCIS 75 


“ Yes, there is a sequel,” said the Bishop, ” though 
I think it a chance that I know it. The sequel only 
happened the other day. I had long left the station, 
and had been made Bishop, and Lawrence was a 
certificated teacher somewhere up in the hills; I did 
not quite know where. However, I had to make a 
tour of his district, and towards evening, on my way 
to the coast, I reached his village. He seemed very 
pleased to see me, and we talked for a long time about 
many things, but not at all of the old station. As 
a matter of fact I did not particularly remember 
Lawrence, as he had grown out of all knowledge. 
I certainly had no thought at all of his vision. In 
the morning I said Mass, and talked to his people, 
and arranged to set out for the coast, a three days’ 
walk still, at nine o’clock ; and then went to my 
breakfast. Half way through it Lawrence presented 
himself at the tent door. I told him to come in and 
sit down while I finished, and he came in and sat 
down on the floor, talking about odd things, while 
I drank up my coffee and finished the marmalade. 
Then I lit my pipe, pushed back my chair, and said, 
‘ Well, Lawrence, and what do you want especially ? ’ 

“ I was all attention the moment he spoke. ‘ Dost 
thou remember my vision •when I was a boy at school, 
my father ? ’ he said. 

” Then, of course, I remembered. ‘ Oh, yes,’ 
said I, ‘ what about it ? ’ 

" ‘ Only this, my father, that I saw it again last 
night, and now I know I am to die.’ 

" That was a little startling, and I knew that it does 
not do for natives to get ideas like that ; so I thought 
that I would laugh and pass it off. But then I looked 
more closely at him, and instead I said, ‘ Tell me.’ 

“ I’ll spare you all the story. It seems he had 
‘ woke ’ in the night again, and ‘ found himself ’ in 




76 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


the old church. This time, however, he was not 
with the boys, but behind with the congregation. 
He said that, just as before, he had no sense at first 
of anything strange, and no immediate remembrance 
of his former vision ; but as he looked towards the altar 
he was conscious of ‘the gulf,' and remembered. 
Then the procession came in as before — all but the 
priest and the server. And this is how he finished 
telling me the story : ‘ The same man as before, my 
father — I knew him at once — came in, and he came 
right forward to the steps and looked down the 
church. I was horribly afraid, because I knew 
what he would say. And he said it : Father 

Mallory is here and waiting to say his Mass. Which 
of you will serve him ? " But the moment he had said 
it, my father, I knew that I feared no more at all. 
I got up, just where I was, at once, and I said, ‘‘ I will," 
and the man looked full at me and smiled, and held 
up his hand as if to beckon me, and I saw that he had a 
wound in his hand — and I was again in my house, my 
father.' " 

“ Well, I examined him, and he was as sound as a bell. 
I laughed at the idea of his death, and told him we 
ought not to put our trust in visions, but only in God, 
and he was respectful and quiet. But he wished me 
‘ good-bye ' with a strange air of finality, and knelt 
for a moment or two after my blessing. 

“ I got to the coast in good time, and found my 
mail not in, so that that night I slept in the hotel. 
At breakfast the waiter told me that a native was 
outside asking for me, and when I had finished I went 
to him. I don't know why, but I had a strange pre- 
monition of bad news, and I got it at once. It seems 
that Lawrence was killed by the chance fall of a heavy 
branch from a cocoanut tree the morning after I had 
left his place. He had put all his affairs in order. 


FATHER FRANCIS 


77 


and had told his wife to send word to me when he died. 
Then he went about his work as usual. He had taught 
in school all the morning, and gone out to visit some 
Christians in another village that afternoon. On his 
way back one of those dead boughs that swing 
from the cocoanuts till some sharp gust brings them 
unexpectedly down, fell right across his path. The 
heavy end struck his head, and he died without a 
word. He had stood up, you see.'' 

I looked at Courtenay. He was staring at the 
Bishop without a word, a curious, tense look on his face. 

Come," said the Bishop, pulling out his watch, 
" it's time for Compline. Do you care to come, Mr. 
Courtenay ? " We went down the stairs. I hung back 
at the top, and the Bishop passed near me. " The man 
with the pierced hand," I said. " What do you 
think ? " "A little beyond Mr. Courtenay, I fear," 
he said ; " but then he could scarcely be expected to 
credit the stigmata." 


78 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


CHAPTER VII 

The Penitence of Peter 

I HAD often wanted to visit St. Agatha's, but had 
never been able to make the time. Fifty-odd miles 
constitute a barrier of no little importance when the 
only road is a trail hardly discernible in parts, spruit- 
cut in places, and at its best a dusty or sandy way 
according to the time of year. But I had real need 
at last, and the opportunity had to be made. So one 
fine morning, the air still fresh and clear after a heavy 
shower or two a few days before, I ordered out my 
horse, packed my saddlebags with what constitutes a 
change of clothing in these parts, cut myself a package 
of sandwiches, and rode away. The route lay down the 
hill and over the river ; then round the spur of a near 
mountain, and so out to the open plain ; then through 
the nearly ripe fields of mealies and Kaffir corn, where 
the birds sang and the wind passed with music, to 
the distant Nek in the hills that lay between us. There 
are days in Africa when the feeling that it is good to 
be alive is stronger here than anywhere else. This 
was one of them. The sky was blue above ; the herd- 
boys on the veld had discarded their blankets, and 
for the most part were lying hid among the rocks ; 
and the wind caught up and spun by little cones 
of dust that whirled from nowhere into nowhere as 
if they were glad of it. At the same Nek I lunched. The 
way was plain before and behind ; behind, almost to 
the hilly camp I had left ; before, to where hills closed 
in again not far from St. Agatha's. Through the 


THE PENITENCE OF PETER 79 


long afternoon we wandered on, my horse and I, over 
a river or two — shining like silver under the rare 
trees — and through the lands, leaving the villages 
perched on the hillsides that we skirted, until the sun 
bid fair to set in an hour or so. We had mounted a 
bit of a rise, and it was plain that the land sloped to 
a river some distance away which skirted a range 
of unusually rocky heights. Above it, perhaps a mile 
to the north, on a little elevation, stood out a bare, 
tall cross. I called to Johnny, and we were away 
at a canter. 

The Mission buildings clustered on the slope beyond 
the cross, among mealie fields. First there was the 
tiny church, and then the three or four thatched mud 
huts of the priest and his people behind. He came 
to meet me as I rode up, a tall, spare figure in his old 
black cassock ; and although I was a layman and my 
life as different as possible from his, I think we weie 
friends almost at once. I had a tin mug of tea 
immediately in the living hut, and then was shown 
round the estate. Dogs, horses, fowls and possibly 
pigs assume an importance out here almost beyond 
a city imagination. Then we came to the church. 

It is years ago now since I saw it, but the memory 
has remained with me as fresh as ever till this day. 
The walls were stone, but the roof was mud and thatch. 
A bowl of holy water stood on a rude wooden pedestal 
at the door. Coloured oleographs of the Stations hung 
on the walls. There were no benches or chairs, but the 
altar was set up under a simple baldacchino, and 
two white statues graced the far windows of the north 
and south sides. In the centre of the west wall hung 
a big picture of the Madonna, and a red, flickering 
sanctuary lamp before the altar told of the presence 
of her Son. But I am old man enough now to know 
that none of these things accounted for the atmosphere 


80 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


of the place. I do not know the theology or the 
psychology of it, but I know there are shrines where 
God's Self can be felt. So I knelt on the mats under 
our Lady's picture, and the peace of God that I had lost 
awhile came back to my soul. 

Then Father Hugh explained things. Churches with 
a five hundred or a thousand pound leredos, designed 
by a famous artist, never know the joy of offering 
a baldacchino constructed by oneself out of old curtains 
and ceiling boards. I entirely agreed with him that it 
was better for the painted stars to look down on one 
from the roof in the order of their constellations, 
rather than in the conventional lines of a Prussian 
regiment, even if the Great Bear and the Southern 
Cross do not, in fact, occupy precisely that relative 
position in the heavens themselves. After all, as Father 
Hugh explained, one can only put in the constellations 
one knows. And so I heard his story — heard how the 
heathen herd-boys, in Ipin cloth and blanket, had 
come and asked to be shown the pictures of our Lord's 
passion ; how the simple folk had adored the poor 
little Crib that first Christmas of its appearing ; and 
how Blandina of her own initiative had gathered 
a bunch of the scarlet spring aloes of the wilderness 
to lay upon the floor, where they would wilt before our 
Lady. I remained while the priest rang Angelas 
and the bell for evensong. Then I knelt on the 
ground by the half-dozen of Christian natives who 
lived within its sound, and joined in the prayers which 
grew richer somehow in that atmosphere of heaven. 

But it was our evening's talk that paved the way for 
this story. We had eaten our bacon and eggs off the tin 
plates, and had drunk quantities of tea ; and then, 
with our pipes going strongly, while the lamplight 
shone on the mud walls, and we rested in deck chairs, 
we fell to talking. We shook the seats of bishops, and 


THE PENITENOE OF PETER 81 


speculated on the destinies of churches. I brought the 
news of the world to the bar of an outlook which 
judged it as the daily papers and the clubs do not. 
And then we fell to talking of the prospects of the 
native race with which we had to do. I contributed 
from the standpoint of hut-tax and labour agents ; 
he, from the church and the homestead. He was no 
deluded negrophile enthusiast, but he had seen what 
was never shown to me. 

“ But,” I said at last, “ do you honestly think the 
native has what I suppose one would call spiritual 
perception ? Is he ever likely to produce saints ? ” 

The priest smiled. “ Well,” he said, in his quaint 
way, “ I’ve seen none as yet. I’ll admit, nor any who 
might develop into a Theresa or an Aquinas, but I 
think I have come across something very like the 
penitence of Peter, and I think the love of a St. John.” 

" Have you ? ” said I. “ Tell me.” 

“ What are you going to do to-morrow ? ” he asked 
abruptly. 

“Anything you please,” I said, “so long as I can 
see something of you.” 

“ Well,” said he, “ come for a walk with me in the 
afternoon. I have to visit a village across the river, 
and I’ll introduce you to a woman who learned penitence 
as I wish I might learn it, and I’ll tell you her story as 
we return.” 

Naturally I agreed forthwith. 

We set out after a bit of luncheon next day. It 
was an easy walk down to the river, and the river 
itself was not much to boast of in the way of water. 
But the great boulders looked cool, and the thin runnel 
sang softly among them. We crossed, and climbed up. 
Father Hugh called out a greeting to a tall young 
girl of thirteen or so, who, clad only in the bead girdle, 
was carrying a tin of water uphill on her head with 


82 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


the grace of a Greek statue. ‘‘ Why wast thou not 
at Mass on Sunday ? he asked. 

“ My mother was sick, and I had to go into the 
fields, O my father,'' said she; and we passed on 
satisfied. 

In a little time we came on a village. The round 
huts were set down in accustomed irregularity, and 
each had its neat grass fence outside it to keep off the 
winds. Dogs ran out barking, to be followed by 
children, who all seemed to know Father Hugh, and 
who promptly drove off the dogs. He had a greeting 
for one and a question for another ; but at last we 
stopped before a hut, outside of whose door, in the sun, 
sat a middle-aged man, with the shadow of sickness on 
his face. 

Father Hugh sat down beside him. ‘‘ How art 
thou to-day, Isaaca ? " he asked. 

“ No better, my father," answered the sick man. 
“ My cough was bad when I awoke, and to-day I have 
been spitting blood much again. I am near to my rest, 
O my father, I think." 

I am sorry, Isaaca," said the priest, " but hast 
thou remembered about not doing hard work, as I 
told thee ? " 

" I remember, my father, and I do not do much, as 
thou orderest. But yesterday I cut new grasses for 
this house, which needs them before the rains ; that 
was all, father." 

Father Hugh turned to me with a helpless gesture. 
" What is one to do ? " he said. This fellow is 
dying of consumption, and he goes into the hot sun and 
climbs the steep hillside for hours, cutting grass. 
Hi, Cypriani, there ! " 

A tall boy came up, all smiles. 

"Cypriani," said the priest, "do thou behold 
Isaaca ? He is sick and cannot work. Wilt thou cut 


THE PENITENCE OF PETER 83 


the grass for his house that Mama-David may thatch for 
him ? Thou wilt not be doing it only for him,” 
he added. 

The boy looked at the sick man and then at the 
priest. “ I go, my father,” he said, simply, and 
walked away. 

“ Go in peace,” said Father Hugh, smiling, and then, 
to the sick man, ” Where is thy wife this day, Isaaca ? ” 

“ She is grinding in the other house, father,” said he. 
“ I will call her.” 

“ No, no,” said Father Hugh, “ we will seek her. 
Be thou in peace.” 

‘‘Go in peace, my father,” echoed the sick man; 
and we made for another hut. 

Within, in the shade, a somewhat toilworn woman was 
busily rolling a stone backwards and forwards on another 
hollowed flat one, pouring a handful of mealies, from time 
to time, into the hollow. Two others watched her. 
She stopped as we came in, and as Father Hugh 
greeted them, the other two by their heathen names 
and her as Mama-David, she got up elaborately to 
shake hands. I looked at her closely. She was just 
a typical native woman, clad in two blankets, rather 
heavy-looking, with tired eyes. A cheap medal of 
the Blessed Virgin hung by a string of beads round her 
neck, and she wore a rosary also. She was glad to see us. 

Father Hugh made her sit down. They talked of 
various things, and then he asked her a question or 
two about last Sunday’s instruction. She answered 
rather feebly, and broke down in the Divine Praises. 
He turned to me with a rather quizzical smile, and 
said in English, ‘‘ You see, our converts haven’t much 
intellectual perception anyway, Mr. Magistrate. How 
can you expect the spiritual ? ” Then he said a prayer 
or two, and we made our departure with the usual 
salutations, and walked out into the sun. 


84 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


A little way down the hill he turned to me and said : 
“It is of Mama-David that I want to tell you ; but 
I wanted you to see her first. I don’t know what you 
will make of the story, but you shall hear it, anyway. 

" Two years ago Isaaca was a heathen, but his 
wife a Christian. He never opposed her religion, but 
he would make no effort at all to accept it. She used 
to come fairly regularly to her duties, and he used to 
sit at home and cough as his sickness grew on him. 
One day, however, as she was setting out for Mass 
and for her communion, he said to her : 

“ ‘ Thou art going to receive thy sacrament to-day, 
woman ? ' 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said she. 

“ ‘ It is very strong medicine, is it not ? ’ he asked. 

“ She hesitated a minute, and then said, ‘ Yes.’ 

" ‘ Well,’ said he,‘ Thou must this day do as I tell 
thee. When the priest gives thee thy sacrament, 
thou shalt not eat of it, but bring it in thy hand to me, 
who am sick, that I may eat and be well.’ 

“ I believe that at first she refused vehemently ; 
but he insisted. She said she knew that it would be 
a great sin, first because it was unlawful for him to 
eat of that Bread, being unbaptized, and secondly 
because she would deceive me, in hiding it. ‘ But how 
should the Washing make any difference to the power 
of the medicine ? ’ said he, ‘ and no one will know 
what thou doest.’ She could not answer him as to the 
theology, naturally, but she was prompt on the second 
point. ‘ Our Lord Jesus Christ will know,’ said she, 

‘ for it is His Body that thou askest me to steal for 
thee, and I cannot do it.’ 

“ Then he swore at her, and seized a stick to beat her, 
and the effort brought on the cough again, and for the 
first time he spat blood. That frightened her, I 
think, and she promised to conceal the Host when 


THE PENITENCE OF PETER 86 


I placed it in her hand, and only make a pretence of 
eating. She said she would bring it straight to him 
from the church. 

" Of course I knew nothing of this at all, and that 
morning the service went as usual. It happened 
to be a feast day of some importance, and there were 
many communicants, which made her task easier. 
Perhaps also I was quicker than usual. An5rway, 
when I placed our Lord’s Body on her hand, she 
made a pretence only of eating, and then, closing 
her hand firmly, she placed it behind her, and received 
from the chalice without touching it, as I have taught 
them to do. She went back to her place for the rest 
of the service, and did not open her hand. Then, as soon 
as possible, she left the church and made straight for 
home. Neither I nor anyone else knew, or need have 
known, anything of it. 

“ I had said my thanksgiving, and come into the hut 
for my late breakfast. I was just pouring out my tea 
when I heard Cypriani, outside the door, call out 
sharply in surprise. ‘ What is it, Cypriani ? ’ I said. 

‘ There is a woman running, father,’ he said, ‘ and she 
seems in great fear.’ 

“ At that I went outside, and stood in the doorway 
by his side. Sure enough, coming up the hill between 
the fields was a woman, half-running, half-walking, 
evidently as one who is nearly exhausted. Even 
from there we could see that she was much alarmed. 
The handkerchief had gone from her head, and, what 
was strangest, she held her right arm straight before 
her as she came, with the hand tightly clenched. I hur- 
ried down towards her, and when she saw me she broke 
into a run until, reaching me, she dropped on her 
knees, her hand still tightly clenched before her, and 
sobbed out, gaspingly, ‘ Father, save me ! The Blood 
is on my hand ! The Blood is on my hand ! ’ 


86 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


“ I could not conceive what she meant. I knelt 
beside her and tried to quiet her, but she would do 
nothing but cry, ' The Blood is on my hand ! The 
Blood is on my hand ! ’ ‘ Which hand ? ’ I asked, 
and she thrust her right hand into my lap. 

“ Then I think I guessed a little. A small crowd 
had gathered, and I ordered them all away, and 
told her to come with me to the church. She was 
afraid at first ; but I ordered it, and I led her by the 
arm out of the sun into the quiet of the sanctuary. 
We knelt together before the altar, and then I told 
her to open that right hand. At first again she refused, 
but then at last, holding it straight before her, she 
unclasped her fingers. As they opened, her face 
grew grey, as a negro’s will, and she dropped forward 
on the floor in a perfect terror, crying, ‘ The Blood ! 
the Blood ! Oh, my father, the Blood is on my hand ! ’ 

“ But I could see nothing there.” 

The priest walked on in silence for so long that I 
interrupted his thoughts. “ What did you do ? ” I 
asked. 

“ I took her hand in mine,” he said, “ which calmed 
her, and then I got out the whole story. It seemed 
that the moment she opened her hand in the hut to 
give her husband what she had stolen, it seemed to 
her that the palm and fingers were red with blood. 
She had shrieked in the hut, and ran instantly, just 
as she was, straight back to me, conscience-stricken 
and terrified as I had found her. So she gasped the 
tale out to me while I held her hand.” 

“ And what then ? ” I persisted. 

His face chajxged rather, as he answered, “ It was 
very beautiful,” he said. “I made her confess to that 
and all her other sins, and I gave her absolution, 
with a prayer in my heart such as I have never prayed 
before. Then I led her to the altar, and once more 


THE PENITENCE OP PETER 87 


bade her open her hand. She did it slowly, one 
finger after another, at first with half-averted head, 
then with the dawn of a great gladness in her eyes ; 
and as the last finger opened, she burst into a flood 
of happy tears, murmuring something that I could not 
catch. 

“ ‘ What is it ? ’ I said, bending down. 

“ ‘ The Blood is on my soul now, father,’ she 
whispered. ‘ The Blood is on my soul.’ ” 

I don’t think we spoke again until we reached the 
church door, and then — “‘The penitence of Peter,’ 
but what about ‘ The love of John,’ father ? ’’ I asked. 

He smiled. “ Oh, that is another story,’’ said he. 




88 

THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


CHAPTER VIII 
The Kingdom 

During the great war, the Union-Castle boats had to 
take on their passengers at Tilbury, and many of the 
usual experiences of African travel were upset. There 
was no slipping over to Marseilles and stealing a march 
of a week on your boat ; and there was no crowded 
ship at Southampton, with pretty girls and anxious 
mothers on all the decks, blocking up the gangways 
and getting cups of tea in the saloon, as there used 
to be. Instead, passengers said good-bye to their 
friends at Fenchurch Street Station, which was enough 
to depress anyone at any time, let alone the friends 
of people off to the Tropics along routes patronised by 
German submarines. Even to old travellers, therefore, 
there was something new in the process of departure ; 
and although the Rev. Stuart Malcolm was an old 
traveller, and the Rev. John Mason was a young one, 
they both elbowed their way through the unaccustomed 
crush, and struggled frantically to get their stuff into 
carriages without the aid of porters, who had been long 
since swallowed up in the crowd. The Rev. Stuart 
got in first, and found the fifth place in the first-class 
carriage. The Rev. John, a stranger to him, arrived 
second, and got the sixth by a sprint in order to forestall 
a person with endless small parcels and an enormous 
trombone in a case, but a sprint which caused him 
to abandon a suit case half way down the platform. 
However, that was how they formed their friendship. 

“ Phew ! that was a near thing,’ said the Rev. John. 
“ Fearful crowd here. It’s all rubbish, I think, their 


THE KINGDOM 89 


not allowing passengers’ friends at the dock. Let me 
see, is all my stuff in ? No, I’ve left that suit case ! 

I say, sir, would you mind keeping my seat for me 
while I go and get it ? ” 

The gentleman addressed — about sixty and apparently 
gouty — looked up from his Land and Water with no 
vast amount of eagerness. Therefore the Rev. Stuart 
sailed in. “ I will,” he said. 

“ Thanks,” said John, and then, noticing for the 
first time that he was a parson, with just that right 
touch that shows you feel that there is something be- 
tween you in common, “ Thanks very much.” 

At Tilbury they got separated in the rush for the 
luggage that ought to be in the cabins and isn’t, but they 
met on the promenade deck as the ship was casting off. 
Casting-off can be an interesting operation, but there 
is not much to be said for it at five o’clock on a late 
November foggy day in the Thames Basin when there 
are no friends on the wharf. 

" We shall see our last of England better off Dover, 
or Falmouth, where they drop the pilot these days,” 
said the Rev. Stuart. ” Come and have some tea.” 
And they went down into the saloon together. 

That, of course, clinched the matter. The tribe of 
chief stewards, anxiously trying to arrange their 
passengers by the light of a remarkably limited intelli- 
gence, always look out the parsons and put them 
all together. Perhaps they think that is safest. Any- 
way, your new curate, just off to missionise in 
Timbuctoo with a certain sense of satisfaction in 
having abandoned (finally, as he desperately hopes) 
all thraldom of frock coats and rural deans, is usually 
taken confidently aside by the representative of this 
worthy tribe for the time being, with an air which 
would have sat well on Guy Fawkes, and informed : 
" I’ve put you next the other reverend gentleman. 


90 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


sir, at the captain's table." It requires more than the 
average nerve to say : " Well, then, for heaven's sake 
put me somewhere else quickly. Who was that girl in 
the blue hat I saw on deck just now ? Miss Helena? 
Well, put me near Miss Helena at the second officer's 
table," and so it does not often get said. Therefore 
the old haunting danger remains — that you will have 
to talk the Oxford Movement with a Simeonite, or 
(worse still) Church Reform with a member of the 
Board of Finance, all the way from the Nore to Kilindini 
or the Cape. 

Anyway, to go down to tea the first night with the 
other parson is to throw up the sponge, and of course 
Malcolm and Mason found themselves opposite at dinner. 
But there Providence stepped in. The two men, 
different as they were from one another, formed a 
friendship which still continues. 

Stuart Malcolm had been on the East Coast a good 
many years, and he was going out now to the Cape 
because the war had limited missionary effort in the 
East more than a little. He was a man of no peculiar 
gifts except those of strong sympathy and that delicate 
apprehension of the meaning of things which comes near 
to being spiritual second-sight. But he was genial 
and honest, frankly interested in everybody and every- 
thing, no vain talker and no fool ; in fact, an ideal 
companion. John Mason was young and at present 
enthusiastic, the sort of priest who may develop into 
the man whom the Church at home forgets and some 
native tribe remembers, as Wessex men remembered 
Wilfrid, or who may, on the contrary, be so horribly 
discouraged in a couple of years that he returns 
home, and marries, and accepts what he thinks 
will be an easy billet — only there are no easy billets 
in the Church, though some men will only discover 
that before the Judgment Seat. 


THE KINGDOM 91 


Stuart and John, then, became real friends. At 
first they talked mostly of the obvious things, that 
is to say, of the war and of the future of Europe, and 
they could hardly do otherwise when the bulkheads 
were closed and the boats lowered all down Channel ; 
when searchlights pierced each night from hidden 
warships and from distant forts ; and when destroyers 
and other light craft, including an aeroplane squadron 
the second day out, were constantly objects of interest. 
But they dropped the pilot at Falmouth and got their 
last papers, and the Wireless Mail had neither the 
opportunities nor the imagination of the Harmsworth 
dailies. By the time they were over the Line you 
scarcely knew that Europe was at war, and it was then 
that the two priests got on to other topics. 

One night, comfortably hidden behind the wind- 
screen in two easy chairs, pipes going, and Jupiter 
bobbing up and down astern as if the ship were motion- 
less and he at sea, John spoke his soul. “ I’m longing, 
father,” he said, “ to see a native congregation at the 
Mass. I want to see the ancient sacrifice part and parcel 
of the life of a new race, and to hear the holy words 
in the new tongue. And then, when I can speak it ! 
Of course, I know there are disappointments and all 
that, but I think the lift of things must be tremendous 
if only one has eyes to see and a soul to feel.” 

" That’s exactly how I felt twenty years ago,” 
said Malcolm, slowly. 

“ And don’t you now ? ” queried John. " Forgive 
me, but I should have thought you would have done 
so, anyway, father.” 

The older priest moved slowly in his chair and looked 
at him. “ Have you thought of what the words of our 
Blessed Lord and of the Evangelists and Apostles 
might mean ? ” he asked. 

“ What words especially ? ” queried John. 




9e 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


'' ' I came not to call the . righteous, but sinners ’ ; 

* They brought unto Him the maimed, the blind, 
the halt, the lame ' ; ‘You see your calling, brethren ; 
not many noble, not many wise ' ; ' He that loseth his 
life shall find it,' he quoted, softly. 

The wind-screen flapped for a minute or two before 
either spoke again. 

Then said John : I don't think I see exactly 

what you mean." 

"No," said Malcolm, " I don't think you could be 
expected to, but, you see, you are looking forward to 
congregations, and to big savages kneeling before 
the altar, and — and all that, aren't you ? Of course, 
you're sensible enough to know of the other side, but 
still, honestly, you expect success? " 

" Well," said John, a little sententiously, " ‘ My 
Word shall not return to Me void.' " 

" Exactly," said Malcolm, " but what does He 
count success ? " 

Again the wind-screen rattled on. 

" Tell me," said John. 

" I will if you like," said Malcolm. "I'll tell you of 
my first tliirty-six hours in the Mission, and of what 
our Lord showed me then. Things have looked a little 
different ever since." 

" It's twenty-two years, as I said, since I first went 
out," he went on. " In those days the boats were 
smaller and one went more slowly, but otherwise it 
has not changed much. I travelled in a British India 
that first time, and she did not carry string bands or 
rich Jews. We lumbered along through the Mediter- 
ranean, and broiled in the Red Sea, but the longest bit 
of all was between Aden and Zanzibar. You longed 
for trees, and the shore, and a church, I can tell you. 
And then one morning we dropped anchor off the 
Sultan’s palace, in fairyland. I remember to this day 


THE KINGDOM 93 


how blue was the sky and how clear the water, and how 
they got the huge barges alongside and began to unload^ 
while a small boat came out for us, rowed by four 
stalwart Swahili, with the St. George’s Cross at her 
stern. It was a sheer marvel how they got our trunks 
down the side, but soon we were dancing away over 
the sea, and the layman in the stern was telling us that 
the Bishop was there, and (what we had nearly forgotten, 
that it was the Fifth Sunday in Lent. Then we landed, 
and went up through the narrow streets. My word ! 
but I can still feel the heat from the white walls 
of the old fort, and smell the smells of the Indian 
shops, with their strings of beads and piles of cottons, 
and dirty yellow salesmen sitting on big red cushions 
and smoking. Then there were the Indian women 
in yellows and brick-reds and silver, and the little 
naked children, and the stately native women with 
baskets of yellow fruit on their heads, and the goats, 
and the donkeys, and the tall cocoanut trees — it has 
never been quite the same since. So we came by the 
narrow streets to where the gate opens on to a veritable 
garden, as it seemed, and in it was the slim-spired, 
beautiful cathedral. Service was on, our guide said. 
Instantly I was afire to go. I longed to see the packed 
building, with everyone praising God. So we went in 
through the door. 

‘‘ The altar was as I had seen it in the pictures, and 
the six tall lights were burning in the hot sun, and 
there was the cool apse of the sanctuary, and I knew 
that the slave market had been there before. But 
Mass was over, and everyone kneeling. And they were 
singing — it was the custom then, in Lent — the Miserere, 
to a plainsong chant. I went in, kneeled with the rest, 
and took it up. ‘ Thou shalt purge me with hyssop 
and I shall be clean ; Thou shalt wash me and I shall 
be whiter than snow,’ but somehow it was as if someone 


94 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS. 


had laid cold fingers on my heart. I can't explain ; it 
was only just an impression ; you may not understand 
it. But wait. 

‘‘ After church we went up to the house, and it was 
all very wondeiful. I could have sat and looked at 
the Bishop without speaking for a long time, and 
there was everyone else of whom I had heard so much, 
and the buildings that had almost been laid in blood. 
But after lunch they told us the news they had hitherto 
kept back so as not to damp our arrival. It was 
in the days of much fever, you know, and no one really 
understood then how to combat it, so that Death 
walked pretty near everyone there. And he had 
touched one of the staff the night before. The 
funeral was to be that very afternoon. It was my 
second service. 

“ I shall never forget a single detail of that walk to 
the cemetery — out of the city, down by the creek, past 
the African quarters with the brown huts and the 
tall trees, and away to the little enclosed place with its 
tall cross and its simple mounds. Two enormous 
trees of frangipanni stood by the gate in full bloom, 
and another had dropped some of its waxen sweet- 
scented flowers into the open grave. The service was 
very solemn ; the Bishop in a black cope and mitre, the 
swinging censer, the little African servers in their red 
cassocks, and the silent crowd of Christians and Indians 
and Mohammedans who stood in or around the grave- 
yard. I was near the Bishop and the grave, and I could 
see the name-plate distinctly as the cofftn was lowered 
in. One thing, however, stood out on it to me as 
nothing else did. ‘Aged 19.' I could not get away 
from that. ‘ Aged 19.' So young, so keen, so full 
of life, he had only come out to the Mission six months 
before, and I suppose he, too, had delighted in the 
scents and sounds and sights: and now, dead. The 


THE KINGDOM 95 


tropic evening fell swiftly as we walked on by the shore, 
for I was to go to the big school for a little, and that 
lay out of the town by the sea. The crickets, new 
to me then, were shrilling away in the African almond 
trees, and the water lapped on the coral beach in the 
way that I have never ceased to love, but I kept on 
saying to myself, ‘ Aged 19, aged 19.' What sort of 
Master was this to serve. Who called His servants so 
speedily away ? What sort of service was this on which 
to embark, which had its reward so early in the grave ? 

The big school revived me, however. It was a 
wonderful place. I saw the boys drawn up in two 
long files under the cloisters near the chapel for the 
evening roll-call, all of them looking clean and neat, 
and then I heard them sing Evensong exquisitely in 
the solemn little chapel. We were very merry, too, at 
dinner, talking of the home news, and getting first 
introductions to African curries and papai, and then 
afterwards we had coffee on the flat roof under the 
wonderful stars, and looked away over the thick woods 
where the fireflies glinted under the trees, to the 
lights of the city and the headlights of the ships at sea. 

I was keen to begin the language in the morning 
right away, and sat in the library, ^”a cool room full of 
books, a bit insect-bitten, but still a library and books ; 
and at lunch I was very keen to see something of the 
island. 

“ ‘ Well,' said one of the priests, ' I can give you a 
chance. I have to go about six miles inland to take a 
baptism this afternoon, and you can come if you like,' 

‘‘ ‘ Rather,' said I, ' when shall we start ? ' 

“ ‘ Immediately after lunch,' said he, and imme- 
diately after lunch we set out, he and I together, I 
carrying a bag with the little font and the shell in it, 
he another with his vestments. It was a jolly walk. 
Everything was new to me, and behind my sense of 


86 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


the brightness of the woods and the fairness of the 
world was a sense of triumph, too, for I was going to 
a baptism on my first day, and ‘ Go, teach, baptize,' 
unconsciously rang in my ears. 

“ We were hot before we got to the place, but at 
last my companion pointed to a clearing among the 
clove trees we were walking through, and said, ‘ That's 
the place. Do you see that hut, just past the big one ? 
He lives there, the boy we have come to baptize.' 

‘‘ Just then a peculiar sonorous noise fell on my ears. 
* What's that ? ' asked I. ‘ What ? ' said he, and listened. 
‘ Oh,' he went on, ‘ that's the sound of chanting in the 
mosque. It'll be the time of afternoon prayer.' 

‘‘ * Which is the mosque ? ' I asked. 

“ ‘ That big hut with the little apse sticking out on 
this side,' he said. ‘ You'll see in a minute.' 

‘‘ And we did. We paused for a moment as we passed 
the door. The dark interior was full of men in white, 
their heads bowed to the ground, at prayer. There 
seemed to me to be many for this lonely place. I said 
as much to the priest. 

“ ‘ Yes,' he said, ‘ there are mosques everywhere, 
and the people are all Mohammedans. Practically, 
we haven't touched them. But come on.' 

“ We walked on thirty yards, and entered the hut 
he had just shown me. It was very hot and oppressive 
and dark inside, and I could see nothing for a little ; 
but then I made out the centre pole and a few calabashes 
and a big jar of brown pottery, and three kneeling 
women, and a native litter of poles and cocoanut rope 
in the corner. On it lay a boy about sixteen years old. 
I thought his face looked strange in the half-light, but 
I realised nothing till a movement, as he turned, 
let fall part of the cotton sheet over him, and then I 
saw where his hand had been. .... He was a leper, 
far gone in the disease. 


THE KmaDOM 97 


‘‘ God forgive me, but I knelt by the door all the time 
in a kind of horror ; I couldn't have gone nearer. 
I was even angry for not having been told. But I 
forgot my anger soon for another thought. I fought 
against it, but could not help it — the Prophet with 
his big hut packed with stalwart men, and my Master 
with the three women and the dying leper boy. I 
watched it all in a kind of dream. Even when the priest 
propped the lad up in bed, and when there came the 
tinkle of the falling water, and the triumphant words, 
‘ Michael, I baptize thee in the Name of the Father 
and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,' it meant nothing 
to me. Only ‘ Michael ’ I thought : what a name for 
a leper boy ! It was my third service. 

“ All the way home I fought the disappointment and 
the sickening sense of fear, but I won no victory at all. 
After Evensong I knelt on in church in a little side 
chapel before the Blessed Sacrament, and there, with 
no light but that of the flickering lamp, I learned my 
lesson. I had looked up at the Tabernacle, and tried 
to make out the carving, and at last I realised that 
the artist had cunningly decorated the woodwork all 
round with twining thorns that seemed almost alive. 
And then, suddenly, I bowed my head into my hands, 
and I knew what the Miserere, and the young life cut 
short, and the leper boy, Michael, all meant. Our 
Lord had been crowned with thorns, and this was 
His Kingdom.” 

John sat on with never a word. “ Somehow,” 
said Malcolm at last, ” I have been content, ever 
since, to serve.” 


98 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


CHAPTER IX 
Black Magic 

Sethlare had a hut all by itself fairly high up in the 
lower Malutis, and he was a witch-doctor. Unfor- 
tunately, however, for the teller of true stories, he was 
not at all like the wizard of romance, nor was his resi- 
dence in keeping. That was as neat a rondhavel as you 
could find in the Lesuto, the reed fence to keep out the 
wind a good eight feet high and strong at that, and 
the interior very clean swept and practically empty. 
He had bones, but he kept them in a small tin trunk, 
with a lock (key long since lost), painted chocolate and 
yellow, and made in the Midlands. He never wore 
them, nor the insides of animals, nor their skins either, 
if you except a very nice cap of catskins which Gunning 
had tried to buy for as much as half-a-sovereign — and 
failed. The cap, and a good blanket, and a pair of 
corduroy trousers that had once belonged to a trooper 
of the B.M.P. (since deceased), made up the old man's 
entirely respectable wardrobe. 

There was only one noticeable fact against Sethlare, 
in short, and that was that he lived alone. Men do 
not live alone in the world of the Bantu except for 
some uncommon reason. Sethlare therefore, at first 
sight, was peculiar. Inquiry substantiated the suspicion. 
He came from no one knew where, though he was a 
true enough Mosuto, and he had the greatest reputation 
for doctoring of anyone within a hundred miles. 

After Sethlare and Gunning, Father Paul is the 
third person of importance in this history, and 


BLACK MAGIC 


he was an old man with a stubbly, short, white 
beard who knew more about the ways of the 
people than anyone else in the Protectorate, and 
who said considerably less about them than anyone else 
either. It fell to his lot in life to travel ceaselessly 
up and down the mountains after his Christians, and he 
did it, unromantically, on a chestnut pony that was 
blind of an eye, and so old that no one knew his age, 
with a boy called Laurence, who looked after the old 
priest's outfit as if he was his father. 

Now since Sethlare lived in a rather secluded valley, 
it chanced that he arrived (from no one knew where) 
and settled down and abode two years before Father 
Paul came to hear of his existence. But one day, 
about midsummer, riding up the valley of the Sinku 
rather more slowly than usual since old Masupong had a 
cough and a cold, the Father spotted the new hut 
where previously no hut had been. It was placed, 
with extreme respectability, on the slope of the hill, 
near neither rocky gorge nor lightning-split trees 
(as it ought to have been), and consequently the 
reverend father made no guess as to its occupant. 
He merely called up Laurence and asked for information. 

Laurence, as has been said, looked after Father 
Paul as if Father Paul were his own son instead of the 
boot being on the other leg, so he replied, although he 
knew all about Sethlare, much as follows : 

‘‘ That hut, as thou sayest, my father, is new since 
the father was last in this place. No Christian, however, 
lives there, so thou needest not leave the road. There 
is only a man there who has come from no one knows 
where, and who has built for himself in this valley." 

Laurence hoped that that would end it ; but he 
had made one mistake. ‘‘ With whom does he live ? " 
asked Father Paul. Is he married ? Has he any 
children ? If he has come from a place unknown. 


100 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


maybe it is a Christian place, and perhaps his children 
have been taught.” 

Laurence sighed his gratitude. Father Paul would 
ride ten miles for the sight of a new child. “ He has 
no children, father,” said he. 

“ No children ? ” asked Father Paul. ” Is his 
wife there, then ? ” 

“ He has no wife, father,” said Laurence. 

The old man reined up Masupong, who stopped, 
indeed, by instinct. “ Then with whom does he live ? ” 
asked he. 

“ He lives alone,” said Laurence, and knew he was 
done at that. 

“ Alone ! ” exclaimed the missionary ; “ and what 
then is this strange man who comes from no one knows 
where and settles far from houses up here, and who 
lives alone at that ? What is he, Laurence ? ” 

“ I do not know,” said Laurence, and lied — 
desperately, it is true, but in the hope that the reverend 
father might even then be content to go on. 

“ Then I will go and see,” said Father Paul, ” and 
do you stay here.” He turned his horse to the hill, 
and Laurence, stopping long enough to hobble the 
pack-horse, turned his horse after him — ^which was the 
way of the pair of them. 

Father Paul reined up his horse at the door, and 
asked if anyone was in. " Come in, my father,” 
said a voice. “ I am glad to see you.” 

" There,” said Father Paul to Laurence, “ he has 
seen us from afar, and he knows that I am a priest. 
I am glad we have come ” ; and he got off his horse and 
entered, a queer, short figure, with his old cassock 
tied up round his waist, and an ancient ierai on his head. 

“ How do you do ? ” he said, speaking like a native. 

‘ I am very glad to see you. I do not pass this way 
often, and when I was on this road last you were not 




BLACK MAGIC 

101 


here, so that now I thought I would visit you. Where 
do you come from ? ” 

“ I am glad to see you also, my father,” said the 
native. “ Has the father come far ? Is he tired ? 
Will he stay here the night ? I am the servant of my 
father, and will kill a sheep if he will stay.” 

" Have you a sheep ? ” asked Father Paul. " I saw 
no kraal.” 

" There is a sheep that is lost in the valley behind 
this, my father. Its owner is on his way here to me 
to find it, and he will not mind if I kill it, for I will 
pay him well. He knows me.” 

Father Paul looked at him curiously. (Laurence 
made the sign of the Cross unperceived.) Then his 
eyes strayed round the hut and over Sethlare, and he 
found aU, as I have said, clean and tidy. 

" How do you know there is a sheep yonder ? ” 
asked he. 

" I know,” said Sethlare, simply. “ Will the father 
stay here one night ? ” 

“ The father goes on to the chief Gunning at the store, 
O Sethlare,” said Laurence, “ and the white man 
expects him, so that he cannot stay.” 

Father Paul glanced from one to the other, quickly. 
Laurence knew the man’s name, and had not told him ! 
Laurence was strongly opposed to staying the night — 
and the man lived alone, and knew of the sheep. 

“ What are you ? ” said Father Paul. 

" I am a doctor,” said Sethlare, simply. 

For myself I should like to have heard Father Paul 
talk, for the old man is no fool. He knew perfectly 
well that there was black magic and white magic, 
and that both hide secrets that have not yet been 
docketed and labelled and stored and reduced to a 
collection of Greek syllables by your intelligent men 
of science who journey with regularity, and a large 




102 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


entourage, through the wilder portions of Africa 
solely to that end. So he neither laughed nor ran 
away, just yet. Instead, I believe, he talked first of the 
weather, and then of the crops, and then of the cattle, 
and only finally of doctoring, with the most simple 
air in the world. Also he stayed the night with 
Set Ware. 

About four, Laurence was dispatched to fetch 
the sheep. ‘‘ Cross the hill,*' said the doctor, and 
from the top of it you will see a little kloof on the 
right in the valley having a big white stone near its 
summit. Below the kloof is a small spruit, with six 
peach trees growing together. The sheep is feeding 
near the peach trees. Bring him.” He was, and 
Laurence brought him. He was killed and eaten 
that night, in our Biblical and primitive manner, 
and afterwards, over the fire, they talked of many 
things. 

Yes,” said Sethlare. I am a doctor, my father, 
but I have heard of the Faith of the Church, and it is 
a good Faith. Therefore I am not as the old doctors. 
I find the cattle when they are lost, and I have know- 
ledge of medicines which you white men do not know, 
or despise. Nevertheless I can curse if I will. But I 
do not curse, my father. I desire to abide here in peace. 
And I am old, as thou art, and shall go soon whither 
there is no return, and I shall learn then what now I 
do not understand.” 

‘‘ There is a return,” said Father Paul, and he 
preached Jesus and the Resurrection, while Laurence 
sat on the ground and said nothing. 

‘‘ I have heard the words of the father,” said the 
old heathen, when he had done, '' and they are good 
words ; but there is much that I cannot understand. 
If these things are so, why have the white people left 
us so long without telling ? And why are the white 


BLACK MAGIC 


108 


people, for the most part, men of no religion at all 
or of none that we can see ? Thou art not as the 
others, I know ; but I will join the spirits of my 
people, wherever they be, since thou hast come late, 
my father.” 

Father Paul answered him, but it was hard. He 
felt old as he answered. He wished, as he had wished 
often before in his simple way (and he was ashamed a 
little as he wished) that he had lived in other days, 
when he might have travelled, like Loyola, where 
others had not been, and the world, if wilder, was a 
simpler place. So at length they prayed together — 
and it was significant that he said the well-known 
prayer and few others, I think — and slept. 

In the morning he was awakened by voices, and, 
hearing a word or two, he went out to see. There was 
a man at the door with a smoking horse, and Sethlare 
Wcis talking to him — a changed Sethlare. He was very 
angry, and he poured his anger out on Father Paul 
when he appeared. ” Ha, father ! ” said he, “ See this 
man ! He has a child, a girl, the light of his eyes, and she 
has been stolen. But yesterday she went to fetch water, 
and did not return, but a herd-boy saw her seized by 
the boys of the white man. Gunning, at the store. She 
was seized ; but she went with them easily, father, 
because her heart had been bought by the white man’s 
gold. Mothlape has feared it for many days. And 
now it has come to pass, and he has come to me to 
find her. What of thy faith, now, missionary, and 
thy white men ? Canst thou help Mothlape ? But I, 
I can ; I, Sethlare, the doctor.” 

There was a great scene, and Father Paul won this 
much at least, that there was no bone-throwing that 
day, and that they all set out for the store. Gunning 
saw them coming-— a strange party, Sethlare on foot, 
Mothlape on his horse, and the father and his boy 


104 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


behind, with their pack and their old-fashioned air. 
He ignored the natives and held out his hand to 
Father Paul. " Good day, father,” said he, “ why did 
you not come last night ? We expected you.” 

" I stayed with Se^lare in his hut,” said the priest, 
" and — I must say it. Gunning — ^he has come with 
this native and a strange story this morning. They 
accuse you of taking this man’s girl. Is it true ? ” 

Gunning stood there in the sunlight, a tall, healthy 
figure of a man, and looked at them. Then he flipped 
his leg with his sjambok, and laughed nastily. ” Well, 
Father Paul, you are licensed, I suppose, but don’t do 
it again. Of course I know nothing of this business, 
and as for that damned old nigger — begging your pardon 
for the language, but I can’t help it — if he comes 
yelping round again I’ll skin him for it.” 

Well, of course there was a lot more talk, but there 
were no witnesses, and, as often before, nothing could 
be done either way. Gunning’s boys swore they had 
never been off the store the day before, and Mothlape 
had not his witnesses with him. So it went on. Gunning 
laughing now uproariously in the sunlight, until 
Sethlare stepped forward and silenced them all by the 
look on his face. “ White man,” he said, “ thou art 
great and cunning, but this time maybe thou hast gone 
too far. I will throw the bones and find the girl, 
and if thou hast hidden her, I will curse thee as I do 
not often curse, and thou shalt die.” And he was gone 
before anyone could say anything. 

Gunning yelled something after him in Zulu, which 
Father Paul did not know ; but it shows, he thinks, 
where Sethlare came from ; and they went into the 
house. Relations were a little strained, I fancy. The 
old priest was too well known and respected for Gunning 
to say much ; but at the same time Father Paul knew 
that he was not wanted, and he made an excuse to 


BLACK MAGIC 105 


leave the store early next day. But that night the 
climax came. They were at supper when Gunning’s 
great retriever leaped to his feet growling. Gunning 
broke off his talk to look at him, and then they 
heard the voice outside. Gunning’s boy threw open 
the door, which opened straight from the hut to 
the veld, and the retriever ran out. “ Go for him ! 
Good dog ! ” said Gunning ; but the dog ran a little 
way, howled, and ran back instead. “ Funny,” said 
Gunning. “ Let’s go and see.” He and Father Paul 
went out at that, and this is what they saw. Sethlare 
stood in the moonlight thirty yards away. He was 
nearly naked, and held a huge stick in his hand. He 
was mouthing words in Zulu at a great rate, and 
waving his hand, but when the two appeared he 
changed to Sesuto, and his voice rang clear. 

“ Liar and betrayer,” he said, “ thy doom is on 
thee at last. I curse thee ; I, Sethlare, I set my curse 
upon thee. Thirty days shalt thou live, and then the 
incurable shall strike thee down. They shall bear thee 
hence on neither horse nor cart nor wagon, and thou 
shalt die among strangers in a strange land.” 

Gunning leapt for his sjambok ; but Father Paul 
blocked his way, and when he got through, Sethlare 
was gone. He came in after a vain hunt, and he and 
the priest spent a strange evening. He vowed again 
that he had not touched the girl, and they dismissed 
the subject. At breakfast Father Paul saw that he 
had been drinking ; but he said nothing, and left 
early. I think the old man’s heart had never been 
heavier, and I don’t believe he is certain to this day 
whether he did right to go. 

He was five weeks on trek, and then dropped down 
a pass into Natal to see another priest whose cure 
lay in a small township where decent roads began. 
They had a lot to say to each other, and it was not 

H 


106 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


until they had finished the commoner subjects that 
his friend broke a silence by asking : 

“ Did you ever meet a man called Gunning in the 
mountains, Paul ? He had a store somewhere up 
your way, I think.” 

“ Yes,” said Father Paul, “ I did ; what of him ? ” 

“ Well, it's one of the strangest and most terrible 
things I’ve heard,” said the other. “ But three days 
ago now they brought him down here and took him on 
in a motor-car to Maritzburg. He fell ill three or 
four weeks ago, and it turned out to be a malignant 
cancer. I don’t know how they got him down the 
pass, but they took him on a special car for operation 
at Maritzburg Hospital. I heard to-day that they 
operated, but could do nothing. They’re sending 
him home to his friends, but they doubt if he’ll live 
to get there.” 

He did not. He was dying at Madeira, and they 
put him on shore in the hospital there. There he 
died — among strangers. Father Paul told me the 
story as we stood by the grave, the last time I came out. 

In Loving Memory 
of 

George Henry Gunning 
Born 29th September, 1877 
Died 30th November, 1910 
R.I.P. 

it said. 

“ Well, but what do you think ? ” I asked. 

“ There are some things,” Father Paul said slowly, 
“ that are best left to God.” 


MICHAEL ARCHANGEL 


107 


CHAPTER X 
Michael Archangel 

Hubert reined up his horse and looked around. 
North, south, east and west were mountains, jagged 
and bare, with a certain majesty in their barrenness 
which had entered deep into his soul and left him 
content. But he was not so content as usual just now. 
The little mountain trail that they had been following 
all day, scarce a couple of feet wide, and rough at that, 
ran forlornly down hill behind him, descended still 
more steeply to a hidden stream (cut, as if with 
a monstrous knife, out of the hillside), and ascended 
steeply opposite. Coming slowly down it to the 
stream were : first, a native on a white pony, which 
limped; secondly, a heavily laden pack-horse which 
walked with its head down ; and thirdly, a boy on 
another pony, which looked, perhaps, the freshest of the 
lot, but was obviously tired at that. Hubert glanced 
back at them, and then looked ahead. The road in 
that direction continued to run uphill for a mile or so, 
and then disappeared over a crest. There was not 
much comfort there. He looked at his watch ; it 
was half-past four ; then at the sky for the hundredth 
time, and sighed. It was white with hurrying clouds ; 
already small white flakes were floating down through 
the air ; it must snow heavily soon. 

" It’s no good,” he said aloud to nobody; " we can 
never make the camp to-night. The only thing is 
to find a village. Perhaps Edwin knows one.” Then 
to his horse : “All right, old man. You shan’t try to 


108 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


keep 'em at it any longer. We’ll knock off here, or 
at the next hut.” 

A minute later the weary cavalcade was within hail. 

“ How far to the camp, Edwin ? ” sang out Hubert. 

The boy on the white horse said something which 
Hubert could not catch. 

“ What ? ” he called. 

" He says it is over those far hills ahead, father,” 
answered the boy behind. 

" Over the far hills ! ” cried Hubert. “ Good 
heavens, as far as that ! Well, we're done, that’s all. 
We can’t do it to-night. Are there any houses near ? ” 

The party, which had now come up, visibly 
brightened. 

“ The men in the last village said we must sleep in 
the houses over this hill, father,” said Edwin. ” If the 
father will ride on, he will see them.” 

“ If you hadn’t wasted your time in every village 
we might have made the camp, you rascal,” Hubert 
said irritably. " However, come on now. It’ll snow in 
half an hour, and we shall be done then. Come on.” 

He shook his reins, and the patient ponies set off 
again. It was already horribly cold, and as they 
reached the crest a keen wind seemed to bite clean 
through them. Hubert pulled his coat tighter, and 
tried to forget how hungry and dirty he was. Edwin 
got a canter of some sort out of his lame pony, and 
came up on the right. He pointed with his sjambok 
to a cluster of huts on the spur below, which seemed 
to stand alone in the desolation. ” The father must 
sleep there,” he said. 

“ The father could sleep anywhere,” said Hubert, 
smiling. “ Come on.” 

The whole party pushed on at a shuffling kind of 
trot, and rode up in a few minutes to the biggest hut 
of the group. Here Hubert fell back a little, and sat 


MICHAEL ARCHANGEL 109 


silent on his horse, while Edwin bargained in the 
vernacular. He smiled inwardly, even in the cold, 
at the strangeness of it all. He was unshaven and 
horribly dirty, but he knew there would not be much 
washing that night. Water to make the tea was as 
much as they could hope for. He glanced at the 
huddled ponies, and at Edwin, in his tasselled knitted 
cap, his old riding breeches and his blanket, talking 
rapidly to a tall native in more blankets, who leaned 
against the reed fence and looked at him indifferently. 
The white man was of no particular importance here ! 
Then he took in the surroundings : the stone kraal 
full of beasts, which lowed occasionally as the wind 
blew gustily ; the earth, bare till the stones and 
rough grass began ; the pile of dung-fuel in front of 
the beehive hut ; and the sounds of talk which drifted 
out with the coarse smoke from the clay archway 
of the low door. But Edwin was speaking : 

“ This man says we can sleep in that house down 
there, father,” said he, pointing to a hut a hundred 
yards below. 

“ Thank him, Edwin,” said Hubert, “ and let’s 
get down there.” 

At the entrance they all got off. Hubert's boy 
began to take the saddlery off the tired horses, and 
Edwin to knee-halter them. Hubert made for the 
door, and went in. At first he could see nothing in 
the gathering dark but the flickering flame of the 
dung-fire, but soon he made out a man who sat behind 
weaving grass-rope, a woman stoically grinding native 
tobacco, a couple of children asleep on a pile of evil- 
smelling sheepskins, and a number of pots and bales 
that looked as if they had come from the last word 
in old-clothes shops. The pungent smoke he was 
more or less used to, and with a greeting he went 
forward to the fire. The man pushed aside his grass 


110 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


to make a place, and went on with his work without 
a word. Hubert smiled to himself, and prepared for 
anything. Anyhow, he thought, nothing much 
mattered so long as they were out of the cold and the 
snow. 

Hubert had once been vicar of a quite fashionable 
church in London, and what his people would have 
thought of him that night I do not know. He was 
perfectly right : there was no water to wash in, as it 
all came from a stream down the hill, and it was far 
too cold for anyone to venture out in the blizzard to get 
it. Besides, he would have been as dirty five minutes 
afterwards, and I doubt if he would have ever got 
warm again. So they made a cheerful party round the 
fire — he and his boys and the man, for the woman and 
the children had gone to their own place. He was 
lavish that night, and gave Edwin and the boy one tin 
of sardines, while he and the man had the other. There 
was plenty of bread, too, and Hubert had the last 
of the marmalade, while the tea was hot and sweet 
and good, even if there was no milk. So they sat on 
the sheepskins in the smoke, and Hubert smoked hard 
himself to make another atmosphere in his immediate 
neighbourhood. Odd snowflakes drifted in through 
a hole in the roof and through the meagre reeds that 
made a door. Occasionally Hubert or one of the 
others would put on some more dried dung, and 
occasionally they passed the mug of tea round again. 
The boys talked mostly of the day’s journey and of 
the ponies ; Hubert amused himself and them by 
learning a few more words in the native ; then he said 
his office by the light of a candle, and then night 
prayers for them all. Then the man spread a big oxhide 
kaross on the floor, and piled the sheepskins for a long 
pillow. Each took off his boots, and Hubert his collar, 
and then each rolled in his blankets on the kaross. 


MICHAEL ARCHANGEL 111 


The priest was asleep in five minutes. He told me he 
remembered thinking how nothing really matters 
except warmth and food ; and that was all. 

Once in the night he half awoke when a sheep 
tried to force his way in, and the man got up to turn 
him out. Hubert hardly noticed it then, but he was 
sorry when he found the poor beast frozen outside 
in the morning. 

Oh, that morning ! The wind was like a knife, and 
the air was full of sleet, though there was not much of it 
because the wind was too strong. The boy, Ben, was 
awake first, and got the fire going, and Edwin dis- 
appeared, second, out of the door to look for the horses. 
It was impossible to say Mass, so Hubert had some tea 
and some bread, and then put his nose outside to look 
for Edwin. He was an hour in coming, and then he 
reported that two of the horses were missing. There 
followed two terrible hours, in which all three of them 
took it in turns to ride Ben’s horse in a fruitless effort 
to find the missing ponies. Hubert made an excursion 
to the river, and thought he would never get back, and 
just as Edwin got in from an equally fruitless attempt 
up the hill — and had to sit by the fire and get himself 
thawed out — Michael came in. 

He wasn’t Michael then, but his appearance was as 
fortunate as his heavenly namesake-to-be would 
have been. He was a big trooper of the B.M.P., and 
he came in out of the snow as cheerfully as possible. 

“ Greeting, father,” said he in the native. “ The 
sergeant heard thou wast coming, and when thou 
didst not arrive last night, he sent me to look for 
thee this morning.” 

“ Greeting,” said Hubert. ” I am very pleased to 
see thee. Two of our horses are lost, and we don’t 
know the road to the camp. And I am hungry,” 
he added. 


112 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


The big trooper took charge of the situation. Dost 
thou know the road to camp ? he asked the man of 
the hut, and when he found that he did, marshalled his 
forces admirably. 

‘‘ Then do thou take the father on the good horse 
that is left to the camp ; Ben, do thou stay here with 
the luggage ; and Edwin, come thou with me for the 
horses. Do not fear, father, but ride in and eat and 
be warm ; it is only one hour away. We will find 
thy horses.'' 

Except that the one hour was two, it turned out as 
he said, and that was how Hubert met Michael. The big 
trooper acted orderly to him while he stayed among the 
Christians near the camp, and when he set out back 
over the mountains to his flock on the plains, the 
sergeant sent the trooper as guide. The return journey, 
everyone well rested with a week in camp, was a simple 
business, the more so as, with the quick change of the 
country, the snow had given place to the sun, and 
the sky was as blue over the hills as it is over the 
Italian lakes. In camp Hubert found that the trooper 
was a catechumen whose work had given him little 
time for learning, and on the way the priest finished his 
preparation for baptism. I should like to have seen 
the party. They rode in single file up and down 
and in and out, the guide first and the father second, 
and Hubert would say : 

'' Who gave you that name ? " 

Back would come the answer, stumbling at first : 

My godfathers and godmother in my baptism, 

wherein I was made a child of God " — but he was 

not made yet. 

Or, Blessed be God," the priest would call. 

‘‘ Blessed be God," responded the guide. 

‘‘ Blessed be His Holy Name," shouted the priest, 
whose horse had fallen a little behind. 


MICHAEL ARCHANGEL 118 


“Blessed be His Holy Name,” came the answer, 
and so on. 

Each night Ben picketed the horses, and then cooked 
the chops ; the big trooper collected fuel and then took 
over the pitching of the tents where Hubert had left 
them ; and Hubert, thereafter, said his office. Round 
the fire they talked, and wound up with the night 
prayers, and among them always, since one believes in 
angels and devils in the wilds and on mission : 

“ Holy Michael, Archangel, Prince of the heavenly 
host, be thou our safeguard against the snares and 
assaults of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly 
pray ; and, do thou. Prince of the Heavenly Host, by 
the power of God, thrust down to hell Satan and all 
wicked spirits who wander through the world for 
the ruin of souls.” 

Hubert said it also, with the Divine Praises, after the 
morning’s Mass on the nearest big flat rock, and Napo 
(for that was the trooper’s native name) used to say 
it after him. He seemed to think it a suitable devotion 
for the Mounted Police. Anyhow, when one day 
they rode into the first out-station of the plains, whence 
the guide was to turn back in the morning, Hubert 
asked : 

“ Thou believest in God and His Holy Church, with 
all thy heart, Napo ? ” 

“ Yes, father,” said the catechumen. 

“ Then will I baptize thee to-morrow before Mass, 
if thou art willing,” said the priest. 

“ I should be very grateful to my father if he would 
do this for me,” answered Napo. 

“ And what name wouldsh thou like to be baptized 
by, Napo,” went on Hubert. 

“ If the father is willing, I would be called Michael, 
that the Prince may protect me, my father.” 

So Napo was washed, and received into Christ’s 


114 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


flock by the name of the Archangel in the little priest’s 
hut (for the church was not yet finished) that very next 
day ; and the first incident was closed. 

Now so far there is nothing out of the common in 
this story, but in the rest of it there is. Hubert told 
it me in that same little hut one night when we were 
travelling together, and he told it me because I had 
asked him why he had dedicated the mud and reed 
church to St. Michael Archangel. 

“ I’ll tell you,” he said ; “ but come here a moment 
and look first.” 

I went to the door obediently, and looked. The 
hut commands the view of a long valley with a river at 
the foot of it, and at its head the road winds between 
great rocks that overhang and almost block it. Behind 
the hut, however, a little path runs up the mountains 
and disappears over its crest. 

” Do you see those two paths ? " said Hubert, 
pointing them out. 

” Yes,” said I. 

” Well,” said he, “ those are the two ways to 
Rambolla where is the camp that I reached in the storm 
the day I first met Michael — you know the story.” 
I nodded. “ It’s three days’ possible journey by each,” 
he went on, ” but the valley road is easier, though 
longer, and I usually go that way and take four days 
over it. And now come in again, and I will tell you 
the reason why this church is the church of St. Michael 
Archangel. 

“ Last season, two years after I had baptized Michael 
it was, I was up here on my way to Rampolla. The 
church was nearly finished then, and we were wonder- 
ing what to call it. In the morning I said Mass at the 
mud altar, and cleared away all the ornaments after- 
wards as the roof was not on, and Michael served me, 
as he always liked to do if he was at the station when 




MICHAEL ARCHANGEL 

115 


I visited it. Then I had my breakfast, and set out, by 
the valley rdad, for Rampolla. Michael was not coming 
as I knew the way well by then, and he was on duty 
at the camp. It was a fine, bright morning after rain, 
and we were all of us very cheerful. 

“ Well, we had got about an hour’s ride down that 
valley, when I heard a shout behind. I turned to see 
who it could be, and saw a man riding headlong down 
the road after us. At that distance I could not make 
out his figure, but my boy, with his keen native eyes, 
said, ‘ It is Michael.’ 

“ ‘ What can he want ? ’ I said. “ ‘ I suppose I 
must have left something behind. Did you put every- 
thing in, Ben ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, father,’ he said, ‘ I am sure I did,’ 

“ ‘ Well, then,’ said I, ‘ let’s wait for Michael.’ 

“ His horse brought him quickly up to us, and sure 
enough Michael got off. ‘ The father must forgive me,’ 
he said, ‘ but he must not travel this road.’ 

“ ‘ \^^y ever not, Michael ? ’ said I. 

“ ‘ The father must not travel by this road,’ he 
reiterated. 

“ ‘ But nonsense, Michael,’ I said. ‘ Why ever not ? 
It’s much better, and I have plenty of time, and besides, 
you agreed this very morning that it would be good for 
me to go this way,’ 

“ ‘ The father must forgive me,’ said he, ‘ but he 
must not travel this road.’ 

“ By this time I was fairly angry. ‘ But why not, 
man ? ’ I argued. ‘ Is it bad, or is there trouble with 
the natives ? Tell me.’ 

“ ‘ It is none of these things, father,’ said he, ‘ but 
the father must not travel by it.’ 

“ ‘ Good heavens ! ’ I fear I said, ‘ what rubbish. 
Get on, Ben. Good-bye, Michael, I am going.’ And 
I shook up Alec’s reins. 




116 

THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


Then Michael took a step forward, and seized my 
bridle. ' Stop, my father,' he said, ' and I will tell you.' 

‘‘ ‘ Well, tell me,' I said, ' and I warn you, if it is not 
a good reason, I shall be very angry.' 

'' Michael shifted my bridle to his other hand, and 
pushed his hat back on his head in a kind of nervous 
way he has. 

‘ The father must not be angry,' he said, ' but 
just now, as I came out of the hut which I had been 
cleaning, I looked down the valley after the horses. 
And then I saw, standing over the valley, Michael 
the Archangel, with his sword drawn in his hand.' 

‘‘ I was utterly amazed. He said it quite simply, 
just as I have told you. I could not say a word for 
a minute, and then I asked, ‘ What was he like ? ' 

It was the man's description, I think, that made 
me believe his vision. ‘ He was black, father,' said 
Michael, ‘ and he was very tall. His feet stood above 
the river, and his head was in the clouds. I could 
not see the tops of his wings, for they met above his 
head. He was clothed only in brightness, and his 
sword pointed towards the road. The father must 
not travel this way.' 

'' Well, that's all of it. He was the first native I 
had ever met who believed he had seen an angel, 
and that was entirely his own description. As for me, 
I turned back ; anyway I don't think my boys would 
have gone on. And they were right. An hour later 
a party passed down the same way — an Indian 
storekeeper and two boys — and Michael let them go. 
He told me afterwards that he had never imagined 
that the warning was more than a personal one for me. 
Anyhow, say what you will, as that party passed 
beneath the rocks at the head of the valley, just where 
the path overhangs the stream, there was a small land- 
slip, caused, they say, by the tread of the horses on stones 


MICHAEL ARCHANGEL 117 


loosened by rain, and the whole path broke away. 
Two were killed outright, and the third injured. I 
heard it as I came back, and went to see the place. 
There was no doubt that the rocks had been loosened 
by natural causes to such an extent that the first 
persons to pass after the loosening had become critical, 
had paid the penalty that this land of rocks and 
mountains exacts from time to time."' 

Hubert finished. So you called the church St. 
Michael ? I said. 

'' St. Michael Archangel,"' said he. 

Well," said I, ‘‘ I don't know much about these 
things, but I think it was the least you could do." 




118 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


CHAPTER XI 
The Iron Bracelet 

They hadn’t seen each other for ten years, not since the 
one got a Government job on a convict island in the 
Malays, and the other sailed for East Africa under the 
auspices of a Missionary Society, which gave him his 
keep and £20 a year in return for his services. Ten 
years before they had rowed three and four respectively 
in a college boat which got its oars in a memorable May, 
and parted, after the Bump Supper, under the moon 
in the First Court. Riley had left next morning for 
Scotland before Enderby was out of bed, and Enderby 
had sailed for Mombasa while Riley was still in the 
North. 

They met in Piccadilly Circus, outside the Criterion, 
where, within an area about the size of Riley’s Malay 
island, one meets everybody if one waits long enough. 
Enderby had landed the day before in a suit of moth- 
eaten grey flannels and a sun helmet, and Riley had 
spent most of his ten years in a shirt and cotton drill, 
while Singapore had been the best in the shape of a 
giddy metropolis that either had seen in the decade. 
But twenty-four hours had wiped most of it out. They 
had assumed London clothes and dropped into London 
manners as if they had never been out of Town. Yet 
each heard that the other had come from the ends of 
the Empire with a sang-froid that is only the possession 
of men of their sort. 

They found that neither had many friends in Town, 
so they dined together that night in a new palace 


THE IRON BRACELET 119 


of a restaurant that had been Exeter Hall when 
they were last in England, and went to a theatre 
together afterwards. Next day Riley introduced 
Enderby to the mysteries of the Chinese eating-house in 
the Circus, and fixed up a visit to Cambridge for the 
week-end. Enderby was host at the Union their 
first night, and by that time they were fairly intimate 
again. Immediate recognition by the amazing Union 
authorities seemed to have rolled back the years, 
and by the time they had reached the coffee they 
felt they could talk freely. 

Enderby passed the sugar, and in doing so Riley 
caught sight of a curious iron chain bracelet on the 
other’s arm. “ What’s that ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, just a native bracelet that was given me on 
the slopes of Kilimanjaro,” said Enderby, “of no 
value, except to me.” 

“ Let’s see it,” said Riley. 

Enderby stretched out his arm again. The bracelet 
was a roughly made chain of wrought iron, and it had, 
as pendant, a circular piece of metal, pierced with a hole, 
which might have been the shank of an old button. 
Riley twisted it curiously for a moment or two, and 
then asked : “ Why do you wear it ? ” 

“ Because of the way I came to get it, and because 
I was asked to do so,” explained Enderby. 

“ A yam, is it ? ” asked the other. 

“ Well,” said Enderby, “ it is a yarn, of course, but 
I don’t know that you would think much of it. Also, 
it is not easy to tell. The value lies behind, if you 
understand me. I think it’s a loose sheet out of the 
Acts of the Apostles, but you would probably place 
it in some other category.” 

“ Anyway you arouse my curiosity,” said Riley, 
“ Tell it me and let me see. I’ll respect your opinion 
at least.” 


120 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


Enderby looked at him a moment or two before 
replying. Then he said, smiling : “You know that 
yam of the Yankee who could not see much in the 
pictures of Botticelli, and of the old guide who told 
him that he and not the picture was on trial ? Well, 
if I tell you the story^ in my mind; anyway, I shall 
put you in much the same position. But you can 
have it if you like.’” 

“ Good,” said Riley, “ I’ll take the risks.” 

So Enderby lit a cigarette, pulled at it once or twice 
in silence, and then began : 

“ It happened about a year ago,” he said. “ I had 
had a bout of fever, nastier than usual, and cleared off 
to the mainland for a change. I ought by custom to 
have spent my month on one of our up-country mis- 
sion-stations, lovely enough in all conscience, especially 
one which stands on a hill, approached by an avenue 
of orange trees, and surrounded by a tropical stream of 
clear water, and huge rocks, and thick reeds that the 
weaver birds love. But I was always rather keen on 
getting about, and so I put a week in there, and then 
caught the German mail train that used to run to a 
place called Arusha, a couple of hundred miles or so 
inland. It was a wonderful run. The line wanders in 
and out of the Usambara hills, through banana and 
rubber forests, tiU it reaches the Usambara moimtain 
itself, which is too big to do anything else with but 
skirt. The stations are just a collection of iron- 
roofed huts, but each one is thronged by natives, of 
tribes which vary as one gets inland. Then you skirt 
the Para Mountains which rise abruptly off the great 
plain of the Masai Reserve, and the Masai themselves 
are visible at each halt. They come on to the platforms 
with their spears, smelling for half a mile of train-oil, 
and wearing a tattered goatskin apiece (which just 
about covers their shoulders) for decency. I remember 




THE IRON BRACELET 

121 


I got a good snap-shot of a group of Masai married 
women, who wear enormous broad metal hoops round 
their necks — ten or a dozen to a woman — and not 
much else. We got to Arusha about midnight, and 
were dumped out on to a stretch of bare earth littered 
with railway refuse and crowded with semi-naked 
savages all wanting to carry your bag. I had only 
a small suit case with me, and some ruffians collared 
it and led me off to the hotel. 

“ That was a queer business, I can tell you. There 
was no moon and no road, and we just wandered, 
seemingly hopelessly, till a light glimmered in the 
distance. It turned out to be a half-open door. I 
knocked, and who do you think opened it ? A girl, 
white, thin silk, low-cut blouse, necklace and rings 
complete, as if she had stepped straight out of a 
Berlin hotel ! I asked in English for a room, and she 
replied, in German, that she didn’t speak English. 
I know just about enough German to understand that. 
Things began to look desperate till I tried her in Swahili, 
and then she beamed all over and said they were 
hopelessly full up. I said I was profoundly sorry, 
but that I must sleep there, and I sent her for the boss. 
While she was away I tried strategy, paid off my Masai, 
and flung my bag inside the door. Then the boss 
appeared, talking good English, and he was equally 
emphatic that he could do nothing. However, at 
last, with many apologies, he said he could manage 
something for the night, at a push, and led the way 
across a big yard to a long, low building built as a big 
store room. He opened the door and went in, and 
held his candle high up inside to show me things. It was 
quite empty, and so big that I could only just make 
out two old abandoned beds, one in each of the far 
comers. It was a case of needs must, and so I accepted ; 
and presently I was alone in that great barrack of a 


123 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


place, with a tiny island of light, thrown from a single 
candle, in a sea of gloom. I turned in somehow, 
and you can guess how I slept when I tell you that 
next morning I found a man in the other bed who had 
been through a like business without my hearing a 
word ! 

“ He turned out to be a German Lutheran missionary, 
not a bad sort, and over our sausage breakfast he put 
me up to an itinerary. First we walked the entire day 
to his station — a regular German farmstead, with 
the grandparents and the grandchildren all complete. 
I remember a flaming bed of nasturtiums in the front 
of the house which came like a vivid reminder of home, 
a reminder one needed since the Mission itself was 
high up on foothills covered with banana forests and 
surrounded by the bee-hive huts of Wachaka natives. 
On the way, however, he would talk theology, and as we 
had mostly to use the Swahili, it was very profitless 
and I was hopelessly bored. However, I slept there 
that night, and set off, next morning, with two Lutheran 
sisters for another station, another day’s journey 
away. Those two women were an experience. They 
dressed in very short skirts and hideous home-made 
woollen stockings and thick, clumsy boots, but they 
were kindly enough, and we shared our meals, and 
chatted as well as we could, till night found us at their 
Mission. Next morning I saw the snow-crowned head 
of the mountain for the first time ; at sunrise, it was, 
and as the sun cleared the upper mists, that great 
rounded back of glistening white swam out above the 
fleecy clouds into the light like a sudden vision from 
another land. I resolved then and there to get as 
near to that snow-line as I could, and set out after 
breakfast for the next stage. 

“ All day I, and the boy they had lent me, tramped 
on and up. The road wound under masses of tropical 


THE IRON BRACELET 123 


creeper in the valleys, through thick banana brakes 
on the level, and then climbed to the higher ground 
where coarse bracken and heath grew. By night we 
reached a Catholic monastery, and the good fathers 
put me up for a day or two ; and then I was off again to 
one of those queer places one finds in the wilds. 

" Years before a German professor of psychology had 
come out to German East Africa on a visit for his 
health. He had always had a love of mountaineering, 
and was at once amazed by the surprising splendour 
of Kilimanjaro, till then unclimbed. He had been 
first on the summit, and then, as if fascinated, he had 
given his life to the mountain. He built an hotel about 
8,000 feet up — a big, sprawling bungalow of a building, 
set in glorious gardens, where everything, tropical and 
temperate, seemed to grow ; and he had studied the 
great snow-crowned mass until he knew the best 
paths and the best times and every secret of the 
mountain. He trained native guides, erected huts 
at easy stages, and sat down there, on the skirts of 
the monster, like some guardian of secret mysteries. 
The fame of him reached to Germany, I suppose ; any- 
way, little parties came out from time to time and 
climbed under his supervision. It was a strange place. 
I couldn’t help feeling that there was a curious kind of 
paganism about it all. The mountain was all one 
talked about ; the boys about the place were raw 
heathen ; and I had a sense as if the centuries had 
rolled back and the gods had come into their own 
again. Every evening, when the dying sun stained 
that white crest with crimson, we gathered as if to 
worship it. Anyway, no one worshipped much else. 

“ Well, I found I had hit a bad season, when ascents 
were nearly impossible, and also that I had not enough 
time left for the attempt. My host saw my disappoint- 
ment; and he told me how, by means of an early start and 


124 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


a long climb, I might cross a high spur on my way back 
which would land me on the rocky plateau from which 
the snow-head rises. One cannot make the summit that 
way, but one can see the glory of it. Feeling some- 
thing like a Moses on a Pisgah, I set out. 

‘‘ I shall never forget that day. First I passed a few 
villages of entirely savage heathen folk, and then I 
seemed to leave all habitations as I climbed up. The 
trees thinned ; even the belt of bush gave way ; and 
at last I was out on a rocky spur which hid any further 
view from me. I climbed slowly up it, passed the 
crest, and then saw what I had come so far to see. 

Before me lay a mile or two of stony ground and 
rough grass, and then, seemingly very near in that 
clear air, there rose sharply and wonderfully three or 
four thousand feet of untrodden snow, gleaming in 
the sun, silent, pure, against the blue. Then I turned 
and looked below. Far, far beneath lay the great 
plain, stretching unbroken to the horizon. The glass 
showed the villages like tiny ant-hills, and the thin 
silver of rivers ; and intense silence brooded over all. 
I sat down to gaze and think.’’ 

Enderby paused a moment, fingering a wineglass 
nervously. 

‘‘ I don’t think I can tell you all I thought, Riley,” 
he said at last, “ but it was a little like this. I seemed 
to be seeing the world as God must see it from the pure 
height of Heaven, and I thought how it had looked to 
Him from the Cross, and that it seemed so sorrowfully 
unclaimed ; but then I heard a noise behind me. 

I turned, to see an old native leaning on a stick, 
a queer old savage of a chap, wearing positively nothing 
but a goatskin, and behind him a dozen or so of goats 
busy at the rough grass. I had a little pocket camera 
with me, and I whipped it out for a photograph. At 
the click of the shutter he dropped his stick and covered 


THE IRON BRACELET 125 


his face with his hands in fear. At that I got up and 
went towards him, saying in Swahili : ‘ Don’t be 

afraid ; I won’t hurt you.’ He muttered something 
about the Evil Eye, so I said : ‘ I am only taking a 
picture ; it won’t hurt you ; come and see the picture- 
box,’ or rubbish of that sort. He came near at that 
and sat down beside me. It’s jolly hard to explain 
the art of photography in the native, but I tried, 
and was at least rewarded by his losing all sense of fear. 

" ‘ Where do you live ? ’ I asked. 

“ He pointed to a tiny hut a good way down the slope 
(which I had overlooked) and added that he lived 
alone with his wife. 

“ ‘ What do you do for a living up here ? ’ I said. 

“ He replied that he kept goats and grew bananas, 
and apparently he wanted no more. And then he 
looked at me curiously and asked ; 

“ ‘ What does the Master do up here ? ’ 

“ ‘ I came to see the mountain,’ I said. 

‘“Is the Master a servant of the Government, 
then ? ’ he asked. 

“ ‘ No,’ said I. 

“ ‘ What is the Master then ? ’ he persisted. 

“ I don’t know quite why I used exactly the words 
that I did but I answered at once : ‘ A priest of Jesus 
Christ.’ It comes easier in the native. 

“And then the strange thing happened. The old 
chap’s eyes fairly glistened. He jumped to his feet, 
dropped on his knees, and said ‘ The father is a priest. 
I am a child of Jesus. Bless me in His Name ! ’ 

“ I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to say, 
but I blessed him and we talked. He had a simple 
faith, that old savage .... Presently I said I must 
go, and then he seized his own left wrist and tugged 
off something. Catching my hand he forced it on — 
that iron bracelet. ‘ Father,’ he said, in words I can 


126 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


hardly translate, ‘ I have little to give, but wear this 
from me. And when the father stands at the altar 
and feels it, perhaps even in his own land, let him 
remember me and pray for me and my country. And 
let him show it to people that they may remember too.’ 

“ I thanked him and came away. I don’t mind 
telling you that I stumbled down that bit of hill. . . . 
I’ll tell you what I thought. Nineteen hundred 
years ago they had taken our Lord and hung Him up 
on a hill that His Name might be a b5rword and a 
hissing, and yet here on a hill beyond the borders of 
the world, and unknown a score of years ago, an old 
savage could be found to drop on his knees at the 
mention of that Name. Tell me, Riley, is there any 
other name in Heaven or in Earth that can do that ? 
And there hummed a text through my mind all the 
way down : ‘ He shall see of the travail of His soul and 
shall be satisfied.’ . . . 

“ There ! I’m sorry ; it’s a queer yarn for a dinner- 
table talk, but you asked, you know.” 

That night Riley met an old chum in the street, 
a don now, who had been up with him. He went with 
him to his rooms, and a few more came in, and they 
had rather a good time. “ By the way,” he said, as 
he got up to go, “do you remember Enderby of ours ? 
He’s up too. Met him in Piccadilly by chance the other 
day. Been knocking around in Africa for ten years.” 

“Really? ” said his host. “Yes, I remember him. 
A decent man he was, but rather queer. What’s 
he like now ? ” 

“ Oh, all right — a good sort ; rather queer, though, 
still,” said Riley. 


“SO AS BY FIRE” m 


CHAPTER XII 
“ So AS BY Fire ” 

The “Pevensey Castle” had been five days in the 
harbour of Kilindini, and her people were contemplating 
two more with anything but indifference. There is a 
moment when Kilindini looks like Paradise. After 
the last date-palms of Port Suez, the traveller East 
has nothing before him but the harsh, brown deserts 
and mountains of Egypt, Sinai, Aden and Somaliland 
(except for some sweltering days at sea), until they 
let the anchor go in the long, narrow creek, and he 
rushes up on deck to see the white beach, the green 
cocoanuts and the grey baobabs of Mombasa Island, 
set mostly in a glowing sun under a fairy sky. Then 
he trollies up to the town under his first bananas and 
mangoes, and takes ices at the big hotel with the 
purple bougainvillias and creamy-white frangipannies 
opposite. Then he sees his first Swahili, and gets an 
introduction to the freedom of East Africa. And 
it is all glorious — until the coaling begins, and the 
small island is fairly done, and there is nothing for 
it but to sit in a deck-chair and try not to remember 
the price of iced drinks. 

Hugh Everton had tired of it almost as soon as the 
train had borne north to Nairobi the greater number 
of the “ Pevensey ’s ” people with whom the voyage had 
been spent so easily, and perforce he had been thrown 
a little into the company of old Brooke, who, after 
all, was bound for the same destination and had been 
that way before. Hugh was going to superintend 
other people planting cocoanuts in Zanzibar ; and 
he regarded the prospect with a certain complacency. 


128 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


a little marred just now by his first experience of 
tropical heat, African mosquitoes, and the fleeting 
nature of colonial friendships. Brooke had looked 
after black men’s souls for an unknown period, and 
appeared to wish to do so to the end, with a queer 
lack of enthusiasm, and yet with a certain deter- 
minedness w'hich rather bewildered the other. Everton 
would have told you that he was a “ churchman,” 
and that of course Missions were “ all right,” but all 
the missionaries he had known had been either (as 
he sized them up) young fools, or men seemingly 
inspired with an enthusiasm astonishingly remote 
from his own outlook on life. Yet old Brooke was 
neither the one nor the other. Sitting side by side 
with him in a deck-chair, he was lazily contemplating 
that fact just now. 

A little motor-boat ran fussily out from the quay, 
and Hugh watched it idly round the point. Then 
he ventured on a remark. 

” Your chaps always seem pretty keen when they 
come out. Do they keep it up, Mr. Brooke ? ” 

The other waited till the noise of the donkey- 
engines had died down for a minute, and then said 
with a smile : 

“ So you’re tired of East Africa already, are you ? ” 
Hugh started. ” What do you ‘mean ? ” he said. 

“ Oh, only that I guessed your train of thought ! 
I remember feeling just the same. First it’s like 
Robinson Crusoe come to life, and then one gets 
sick of the heat and flies and damp, and rather wants 
a bit of the breeze over a Yorkshire moor — if one’s 
from Yorkshire ! ” 

Hugh laughed. “ I was wanting half an hour in 
the Solent,” he said. “ But I guess it’s the same 
thing. However, do your chaps get tired, that’s what 
I asked ; and what happens if they do ? 


“SO AS BY FIRE” 129 


“ Some of them go to the devil,” said old Brooke 
simply. 

“ Oh, I say,” said Hugh, leaning forward, “ you 
don’t mean that ? ” 

” I do, if you want the truth. Missionaries are not 
much different from other men, you know, and a 
good many of them go to him too. Only our fellows 
go differently — perhaps.” 

” Have you ever known any to go ? ” asked Hugh. 

‘‘ Yes,” said the other, and added slowly, “ and 
some come back.” 

“ Tell me,” said Hugh. 

Brooke shifted a little and looked at him. He 
took his questioner in, from his Leander tie to his 
rather neat deck shoes, and he told himself, without 
conscious expression, that he had seen many others 
of the same type. Then he glanced out to where the 
palms thinned on the other bank, visible now as 
the “ Pevensey Castle ” swung round on the tide, and 
then he glanced at his watch. “ Very well,” he said, 
” before the dressing bell.” 

“Young Fraser came out in the ’nineties, and I 
believe his people had a country vicarage down in 
Hampshire. He was just the sort we want — trial 
cap; Harrow before that, I fancy, and quite a decent 
degree, and he was as keen as could be. He’d gone 
up keen, I think, and only developed it more definitely 
up there ; and although he wasn’t a fool at all, I 
think he expected street-preaching and hut-to-hut 
visiting, after a kind of Bermondsey-in-the-Tropics. 
He was awfully set up, too, with the natives and 
the country, and he got on with them all right into 
the bargain. We gave him six months in a big Mission, 
and then packed him off to an island, with another 
priest and a couple of laymen. Moshi-Ntumbi, it was. 
It’s a station on the side of a hill among the palms. 


130 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


and you can look down through them to the sea, 
while behind, the slope runs up till the wood thins 
and the bush begins, and at last you come out on 
a dry summit sown thick with thyme and a little 
yellow flower the bees love. Fraser used to climb 
up pretty often at one time. He liked the monkeys 
in the wood, but most of all the view from the top. 
Below, stood out plainly the Mission-house and the 
church, and a hundred yards or so away the native 
village by the water ; and behind, the island lay like 
a map, with the smoke of a score of villages rising 
into the blue with every sunset and sunrise. Fraser 
used to plan a visit to one or another of those villages 
at every climb, but I don't think he got to more 
than three or four. You see, at first he was most of 
the time at the language, and beastly he found it. 
The Tropics are not the best place to swelter grammar 
in. Then his fellow-priest got blackwater and they 
sent him home, and it used to take Fraser an hour 
to get up the psalms and lessons for Evensong, and 
even then he didn't understand them. Then the 
laymen quarrelled, and the Bishop removed one, and 
Fraser didn't hit it with the other. They hadn't 
much in common outside of church, and even there 
it wasn't all smooth sailing. There was a lot to be 
said for the layman ; he talked the language, and 
Fraser didn't, and yet Fraser had to preach and he 
wasn't allowed even to try. Not that he wanted to 
— but he was a stiff critic. Then Fraser had his own 
ideas about the new school, and if he wasn't a car- 
penter, at least he was ' priest-in-charge ' ; and so it 
went on. But the native work broke him in the end. 

“ First there was old James, the catechist. James 
had his own ideas, but they were mostly African and 
concerned with sitting still and not worrying. To 
Fraser, James was a heathen who had seen the light 


/ 


“SO AS BY FIRE” 131 


and must now be more than eager to let it in elsewhere ; 
to James, Fraser was a young white man, wholly 
inexplicable and always in a hurry. Then Fraser was 
very sure about a certain boy, Athanasio, who used 
to help him with his sermons and look after his donkey. 
He was broken-hearted when Athanasio made a 
heathen marriage and was entirely untroubled over 
it. But it was a girl, Mary Kanjai, who finished him. 

“ Mary was born and bred at Moshi, and used to 
teach the kiddies in the school. She was nothing 
much to look at, but as keen as anything, and you 
would find her before the altar every night with a 
nipper or two, teaching them to say their prayers. 
Fraser wrote home about her, and he used to say 
that a few like that were the hope of the race. (That 
was when he found that the heathen did not respond 
in crowds to his preaching.) And then, one night 
of a full moon, while he sat on his verandah getting 
up a lesson for next day, his boy, Yusuf, broke in on 
him excitedly. 

“ ‘ Padre,’ he said, ‘ there’s a big dance over at 
Pani-Samaki, and Mary’s gone to it ! ’ 

“ ‘ What sort of a dance ? ’ said Fraser, in terror 
of the truth. 

“ ‘A bad, bad, devil dance,’ said Yusuf. ‘Plenty 
men drink, and much people dance, and devil come 
and speak through Mary ! ’ 

“ Fraser got up with his face white. It had come 
at last — the heroic, the real. He v/ould go and rescue 
the lost sheep. And go he did, Yusuf and he, five 
miles through the bush, with the fire-flies dancing 
among the tall grasses, and the moon shining wetly 
on the high cocoanut fronds. The path gave abruptly 
on to the shore, and he could see the firelight, five 
hundred yards away, shining ruddily on an old boat 
and a disused palm-shelter. At the place, a row of 


132 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


girls knelt on a raised board and chanted ; a couple 
of men in devil-masks danced ; and a goat lay, with 
its body ripped up, between them. Mary was on 
her knees before it, with her hands buried in it, and 
she blasphemed through her lips. She blasphemed 
him, too, when he got there and ordered her in bad 
Swahili and much agitation to come away, and it 
was only because he was white and new that he got 
away alive himself. And he came back to his lonely 
house with the consciousness of failure on him and 
the beginnings of a bad fever. 

“ Simpson nursed him round. Simpson was a 
Government collector just put in at Moshi, and it 
was he who introduced Fraser to the whisky. Fraser 
did not last six months after that. Then he cleared 
out just before the Bishop came, and went up into 
the Protectorate. And they VTote him off the books.” 

Brooke relapsed into silence. Hugh Everton 
relaxed his hands round his knees and broke it. “ By 
Jove,” he said, I never guessed it might be like 
that.” 

“ No,” said Brooke. “ You wouldn’t.” 

But,” said Everton, “ are Missions a failure, 
then ? What do you mean ? Why do you go on 
with it ? ” 

The boys unloading iron rails alongside for the 
Uganda Extension must have settled a score or more 
into the lighter before Brooke replied. Then he said 
slowly : “ Do you want to know ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the other, ‘‘ rather.” 

‘‘ Well, I’ll tell you what happened to Fraser, if 
you like,” said the old, weather-tanned priest. ” It’s 
a queer sort of yam, but it illustrates both your 
questions. 

“ About two years after that, a couple of hunters 
out from Nairobi crossed the German boundaiy^ and 


“SO AS BY FIRE” 133 


began a big shoot on the Kilimanjaro slopes. There 
was a good deal of elephant there then, and things 
were pretty rough. About two miles below a place 
called Marengo, they rounded up a good-sized herd 
in a little valley with steep sides, where a bit of a 
waterfall drops a hundred feet or more into a basin 
among long grass. There wasn't any beating, but 
the Masai guides led them there, and they had the 
beasts in a trap, and got several cows and a bull or 
two each towards evening when the big beasts came 
to drink. Then they cut out the tusks and the best 
of the meat, and set out for Marengo, a Ki-chaka 
village — all of them, white and black together, as 
excited as they could be. The chief turned out of 
his hut for them — or they turned him out, really ; 
and then they laid out for an evening of it. The chief’s 
hut was set in a kind of thick aloe fence, and all the 
enclosure was overgrown with banana trees. The 
boys made a huge fire outside and spread a table near 
the fire (for it’s cold in the evening on Kilimanjaro) 
that looked like civilisation almost. Both men meant 
to do themselves well that night. They hadn’t a 
table-cloth, but there was plenty of whisky and new- 
roasted corn-cobs, and a banana stew, and some birds 
they’d knocked over, and the best of the elephant 
meat. Half way through, they called old Mataka the 
chief, and gave him whisky and sent him out to find 
girls to dance. It was a scene that; I can tell you — 
the red sparks of the fire, the natives clustering round, 
the girls dancing, the open, dark hut behind with the 
blankets spread and the mosquito-nets rigged up, and, 
far behind all, the moon, white on the snows of 
Kilimanjaro. Then came swift tragedy. The younger 
of the two white men wanted one of the dancing girls, 
and she refused. He got up drunkenly and staggered 
over to her and took her by the arm, and she broke 


134 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


away. He swore and asked why. She — despite the 
dancing and the savagery — ^said she was a Christian ; 
and he — ^well, he kicked her badly for her pains. They 
carried her out, and both men contented themselves 
with others. 

“ When the sun was well up, the older awoke and 
drank his coffee, and at that he heard the news. He 
turned back to the hut and woke the younger. 

“ ‘ You’re a cursed fool, Jim,’ he said. ‘ That 
beastly girl you kicked died last night, and now 
there’ll be the deuce to pay, for as likely as not we 
shall have a row with the Government.' 

“ ‘ Which girl, Charlie ? ’ said Jim, who hadn’t got 
his memory back all that much yet. 

" ‘ Why, you fool,’ replied Charlie, ‘ that girl who 
danced and wouldn’t come in because she said she 
was a Christian. You took Sikujua instead — ^remem- 
ber ? You’d better go and look at her and give her 
man fifteen chips (i.e., rupees) and a new knife. And 
be quick about it ; breakfast’s getting cold.’ 

“ Jim, swearing hugely, went out of the enclosure. 
A few yards away a big native squatted by a door- 
way, and presently took him in. In the corner lay 
the girl. She wore a crucifix by a bit of dirty string 
round her neck. 

“ ‘ She my girl, good girl,’ rattled on the native. 

‘ Worth very much — ^knew to read, to write. She 
Mission girl, called Mary, came from far away and 
live with me. White man pay much money or I 
make great trouble. He kick her ; she die last night 
— my girl, good girl. Mission people call Mary.’ Jim 
heard as from a great way off, but there was another 
woman by the body, and she took up the tale in better 
English. ‘ I Mission girl too,’ she said ; ‘ Catholic 
Mission. Mary English Mission, and all last night 
she have much pain and she say : " I want to make 


“SO AS BY FIRE” 136 


confession ; why are there none of my priests here ? 
I big sinner, but very sorry. Never done some wrong, 
but I want a priest : why none of my priests here ? " 
So she die, white man, and you very bad man.’ 

“Jim turned without a word and left the hut. He 
was as white as a piece of paper. Outside, the sun, 
hot already, made the air flicker over the banana 
slopes, and glittered on the white head of Kilimanjaro. 
But Jim saw nothing of it, nor heard Charlie calling. 
Instead he saw a fire on the beach in the night, and a 
girl possessed, over a sacrificed goat, and himself 
vehemently judging and condemning. And as he saw, 
heedless of the natives and of his companion, he 
staggered away among the bananas and dropped on 
his knees. And all the grim tragedy of it smote on 
his brain : ‘ Why are there none of my priests here ? ’ 
And there had been — in the next hut ! ’’ 

The voice of old Brooke broke curiously and ceased. 
Hugh Everton swallowed a little in his throat, and 
looked out over the blue water to where the " Pevensey 
Castle,” in her swing, showed him the white foam on 
the reef. “ And that’s the answer to more than one 
of your questions,” said Brooke, after a minute. 

Hugh glanced swiftly at him. “ How did you know 
all that ? ” he asked. 

Brooke pulled a pipe out of his pocket and began 
to pack it. “ Oh ! one hears yarns like that in Africa,” 
he said evenly. 


136 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


CHAPTER XIII 
Stefano 

All the boys had gone to football except Stefano, 
whom a slightly sprained ankle kept at home that 
afternoon. He was a well-built lad, a Yao, with 
remarkably Bantu features that could not be called 
beautiful, except by such as have the wit to set small 
store on earthly standards of beauty, and who look 
instead at the light in the eye and the play of the 
soul. In Stefano’s eyes, then, was a light which was 
capable of almost transforming his face, and which 
sometimes made the padre who taught him look at 
him a moment longer, when he asked him a question 
in class, than he looked at other boys. Not that the 
padre quite fathomed those eyes : far from it. They 
showed a boy who was very much of a boy; and 
annoyingly keen on mischief, and a boy who had a 
very considerable intelligence hidden behind them ; 
but there was a look there also which rather baffled 
the observer. The padre said it was a puzzled look, 
and probably he was right. Stefano, for all his black 
skin, was by way of being a bit of a Socrates. He 
never accepted things at their face value merely, and 
he was perpetually grappling with the problems of 
his universe. He was scarcely conscious of grappling 
with them ; he was chiefly conscious-, unlike his fellows, 
that there were inconsistencies in life, even in life as 
set out by the (obviously) immensely rich and per- 
fectly infallible Mission. It is not really very polite 
to Stefano, but the padre often said that he looked 
at you as a very intelligent and affectionate dog 


STEFANO. 


137 


sometimes looks when his master is preparing for a 
journey, or is in trouble. The dog is aware that the 
god-like being is disturbed, which, in a god, if one is 
intelligent enough to think it out, is amazing. So 
Stefano, with an implicit trust in the system that 
enmeshed him, was intelligent enough to realise 
sufficient of the paradoxes of life to be almost per- 
petually puzzled. . . . But he never doubted, you 
understand. 

It was just such a paradox that came his way 
that afternoon, while he sat in the airy whitewashed 
schoolroom with its glassless windows, through which 
the mason-bees hummed every now and again, and 
the hot air faintly stirred. He had sat down to enjoy 
an enormous treat to such a boy as he. The padre, 
a prisoner before a pile of exercise books at the far 
end of the room, had lent him, at his own inimitable 
half-bold, half-careless request, a startling production 
known (I believe) as The Twentieth Century Atlas. 
It was no ordinary atlas. It not merely pictured remote 
lands in bold colours, which was interesting enough, 
but it gave further pictures of those same lands in 
other further colours and markings, with odd little 
representations below, of, for example, a series of 
cows, or of ships, or of soldiers, or of coal-blocks, all in 
ascending sizes. This, then, was one of those mys- 
terious things that Stefano loved. He knew, dimly, 
that the soldiers, for instance, represented armies ; 
and yet the English soldier in red was the smallest 
on the page, whereas everybody knew that the armies 
of the great King were as the trees of the forest for 
multitude. Stefano never talked of such a thing, but 
it was strange to him. So was also the page at which 
he was even now looking. ^ 

It represented the world ; he knew that (howbeit 
it was square on the map and flat, although the padre 

K 


138 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


said it was round) ; but the world in a variety of 
colours which seemed to correspond to nothing under 
the sun. The greater part of Europe and South 
America, for instance, were red, whereas England and 
most of Germany were white. Now, why, why in the 
world ? As all Stefano’s fifteen years had been lived 
in German East Africa, he knew exactly how much 
there was in common between the Germans and the 
English, and if he had been map-making he would 
most certainly have not made them both white. He 
heaved a tremendous sigh. 

“ What is it, Stefano ? ” asked the padre, looking 
up. " Want to go out ? ” 

Stefano grinned and said nothing, which was rather 
his way. 

“ Well, what is it then ? ” the priest persisted, and, 
glad of a momentary interruption, sauntered down the 
room. 

Stefano promptly turned the page, which was again 
his way, but the padre knew him, and as promptly 
turned it back. He was at once confronted with 
the Harmsworth faith in The Religions of the World. 

“ Oh ! ” said he, rather spotting a chance, “ that’s 
a map of the religions of all the people in the world. 
The green shows the lands where the people believe 
in Mohammed, and the black is heathen, and the 
red is — er — well, is — er — ‘ Katoliki.’ ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Stefano. 

“ Now, where were you born ? ” said the padre, an 
inquiring finger wavering over the page. 

“ Mataka,” said Stefano promptly. 

“ Exactly,” said the triumphant padre, stabbing the 
page ; ” that’s there, and it’s black, you see. Now in 
your villagef the people^, were all heathen, weren’t 
they ? ” 

“ No,” said Stefano. “ Mataka built a mosque in 


STEFANO 


139 


the time of my father, and all the people hear the 
Koran now.” 

“ Oh, well, you see, this map was printed before 
that was known in England,” said the slightly less 
enthusiastic but still painstaking priest. “ Look at 
Zanzibar, now, that’s Mohammedan, and you see it’s 
green, isn’t it ? ” 

” Yes,” said Stefano, not over-convincedly ; “ but 
the Great Churches of the Mission and of Roma are 
there. And what does red mean ? ” 

“ Katoliki,” said the padre, on surer ground. 

“ Then what does white mean ? ” persisted the boy. 

“ Oh, well,” said the priest, “ it means Christians 
that are not Katoliki, you know.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked Stefano. 

” Well, you see,” said the lecturer, “ they do really 
love and worship our Lord, but they’ve forgotten, or 
not understood, all His Words. They don’t listen to 
the Bishops He put into the world to teach the people. 
But they really love our Lord,” he added lamely. 

“ Ha ! ” said Stefano again, and then, with a 
remembrance of the Friends’ Mission in Pemba, seen 
on a holiday : “ Are the other white men in Pemba 
Christians, then ? ” 

” Yes,” said the priest. 

“ But a boy told me they don’t baptise the people,” 
objected Stefano. 

“ No,” said the priest, “ they don’t ” (and began to 
hanker after the exercise books) ; “ but they do love our 
Lord, only they think His Words don’t — er — quite 
mean that now.” 

Stefano sat amazed. “ But they don’t have a Bishop,” 
he said. 

” No,” said the priest. 

“ And they don’t go to Mass, and they don’t confess 
their sins for God to speak forgiveness by the priest.” 


140 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


“No/’ said the priest. 

“ But are they Christians, then ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the padre, plunging in up to the neck 
again. “ Yes, Stefano, they are, but, as I told you, 
they’ve forgotten the Words of our Lord. He lived a 
long time ago, you know, and they left the Bishops, 
and now they don’t do these things. You mustn’t 
worry about them. You know the Words of our 
Lord.” 

“ But,” said Stefano slowly, “ but I don’t under- 
stand, father ; they read the Bible.” 

“ They do, Stefano, but it is as I say,’' said the 
priest hopelessly. 

“ Well,” said Stefano, “ 1 should he afraid,*' 

That was the sort of boy he was, and what could 
you do with him ? And there was another side to 
his character, too, that came out in this way. 

One night the padre and the priest-in-charge were 
sitting on the mosquito-proof baraza, talking after 
supper. The tree-crickets had a parliament on just 
outside, and it was not any too easy to talk com- 
fortably, but the two were rather deep over a new 
book that discussed the philosophy of Nietzsche and 
one or two other unimportant matters. Suddenly, 
however, the crickets ceased to sing, and in the silence 
they heard a cry. 

“ Hullo,” said the padre, “ what’s that ? ” 

It came again and nearer, a woman’s cry, and then 
the pad-pad of bare feet running. They listened 
eagerly. Under the baraza the feet stopped, and a 
man’s voice cried up : 

“ My father, oh, my father, art thou there ? ” 

“ Yes,” called back the priest-in-charge. ‘‘ Who 
is it ? ” 

“ It is I, thy son, Wilfridi, and my wife. Come to 
us quickly, my father ; we are bewitched.” 


STEFANO 


141 


The woman’s lamentations rang out again at that, 
and the priests rose hastily and went downstairs. 

At the door, the padre saw a strange sight. Against 
the background of palms that glistened in the white 
moonlight stood a native man. His left hand gripped 
the arm of a woman, who crouched on the ground, 
wrapped up in her sheeties and crying monotonously. 
His right was held rigidly in front of him, and in the 
clenched fist was a small object. 

“ Oh, my father,” broke out the man the moment 
the door was opened, “ we are here, thy children, and 
we are bewitched. As Fidesi, my wife, went to the 
bed but now, she saw beneath it this medicine, a 
great medicine, my father, by which I shall go mad 
and kill my wife, and die myself. And even now the 
madness works in my brain, oh, my father,’' he added. 

At this the woman’s cries redoubled, and she tried 
to pull away her arm. ” Peace, woman,” said the 
man roughly but fearfully, “ or the spirit will seize 
upon me.” 

“ What rubbish and foolish talk is this, Wilfridi ? ” 
said the elder priest sternly. “ Are you not a Christian, 
and have you not a cross about your neck that 
you should talk like this ? Is not Christ our Lord 
stronger than Satan ? Give me the medicine and 
go quietly to your home, and in the morning I 
will come and pray, and no evil thing shall have power 
over you.” 

The man mumbled shamefacedly, and pushed his 
right hand towards the priest, who took from it a 
curious little bundle. He put it behind his back, 
and the woman ceased at once to cry. 

“ Kneel now,” he said to them. 

The man knelt, and the woman shuffled up on to 
her knees and made the sign of the Cross. 

“ Holy Michael Archangel,” prayed the priest. 


142 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


" defend us in the day of battle. Be thou our safeguard 
against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May 
God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou. Prince 
of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust 
down to Hell, Satan and all wicked spirits who wander 
through the world for the ruin of souls.” He added a 
blessing. The two signed themselves again, and 
with profuse thanks moved off into the darkness, 
talking excitedly as they entered the trees. The 
Englishmen remained in the light, of the doorway, 
and both bent to examine the medicine. 

It was a little bundle, tied with a fragment of dirty 
cloth, and consisting of a few twigs of the cassarina 
tree bound to a few inches of hard wood. 

" I know it,” said the elder. ” The medicine-man 
cuts the wood on a night of the new moon, and the 
blood of a goat slain in sacrifice is sprinkled over it. 
See, it is stained on this side. Then you can combine 
the wood with various leaves for different magics. 
This one is to separate husband and wife. Some 
man wants the woman put out of the way, and by 
this he will cause the man to slay his wife. I’ve known 
it done too. So much for the power of super- 
stition.” 

The younger padre turned it in his hand. ” Do 
they all believe that ? ” he asked. 

" Yes,” said the other, “ it’s very widespread I 
think.” 

" Give it me, will you ? ” asked the first. 

“ All right,” said the other man, “ only lock it up. 
These things are really best destroyed. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night,” said the other, and turned away, 
the thing in his hand. 

As he crossed the moonlit courtyard, a light in 
a window opposite attracted him. He hesitated 
a minute, and then turned in under the cloisters. 


STEFANO 


143 


climbed a narrow stone stair, and opened a door. 
Within were a dozen beds, six a side. A big crucifix 
hung on the bare wall opposite, and the dormitory 
was lit by a small lamp. 

The priest took a few steps in, one hand behind his 
back. “ Asleep yet, Stefano ? ” he said softly. 

A boy stirred on a bed and sat up, his clean, black 
skin catching the lamplight. “No, father,” he said. 

“ Come here, then,” ordered the priest. 

Stefano got out of bed, gingerly, and, wrapping 
his covering blanket round his waist, approached the 
priest. Two or three others moved a little to watch. 

“ Stefano,” said the priest, “ you are a Christian, 
aren’t you ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the boy, wonderingly. 

“ Well,” said the priest, “ then take this,” and 
he thrust his hand holding the medicine towards 
the boy. 

The light fell on it plainly. A boy in bed uttered 
a cry and drew his blanket over his head. Another 
sat up hurriedly, and held his hand, with the fingers 
spread, before his face. Stefano. blanched under his 
black skin, and fell back a pace. A dead silence 
fell on them all. 

“ Take it, Stefano,” said the priest again. 

“It is a medicine which makes madness, oh, my 
father,” whispered Stefano ; “I myself have seen 
it.” 

“ Stefano,” said the priest again, “ who is stronger, 
Christ or Satan ? Take it into your hand. Does it 
harm me ? ” 

“ The white priest cannot be harmed,” said Stefano. 

The padre did not reply. He simply stood there 
and held it out. 

The minutes passed. Almost he lost patience, 
but then the boy before him stirred. Very slowly. 


144 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


his eyes on the priest, he made a big sign of the Cross, 
and then, never looking down, he held out his hand. 
The priest put what he held into it for a moment, 
and then withdrew his own again. 

‘‘ God bless you, boy,'' he said huskily ; get back 
to bed." 

He turned and went out, but Stefano stood a minute. 
Then he, too, made for his bed. The boy next him 
rolled farther away, and Stefano got in slowly. 

But I myself have seen it," he muttered half 
audibly, and again more determinedly, “ I myself 
have seen it." 

That was the kind of boy Stefano was ; and when 
the padre gave him, next day, a medal of St. Michael 
Archangel treading Satan under foot, he thanked 
him gravely, but never appeared with it, so that 
the padre concluded that for some reason of his own 
he would not wear it. That, again, was the kind of 
boy Stefano was. 

The years pass quickly in Africa, and the priest-in- 
charge was almost startled when Stefano came to him 
one day and said he wanted to marry the girl his 
father had chosen, and leave the school. 

‘‘ But will you not go to Zanzibar to college ? " 
asked the priest. '‘You are a good boy ; we will 
send you." 

" No, my father," said the boy. " I do not wish 
to be a teacher. My father has chosen a Christian 
girl, and I like her. We will marry, and live in my 
father's village." 

" But it is twenty miles away, and all heathen ! " 
exclaimed the priest. 

" I am sorry," said Stefano*, "if it grieves my 
father, but it is the wish of my people, and I go. I 
am strong ; I will walk in to the Mission very often 
for my Church, and my wife with me." 


STEFANO 


145 


There was nothing to stop him, and so it happened. 
Only the foreboding of the priest-in-charge came to 
nothing. Stefano was strong and he did walk in. He 
became one of those curious natives that a little bit 
vex a missionary’s heart. He came to his duties three 
or four times a year, and fairly often for other things as 
well, but he said very little and he seemed to progress 
not at all. But all was straight at the village on the 
hills, and as his goats increased he became a man of 
importance there, with his children growing up about 
him. And all went well till about the middle of 
August, 1914. 

Stefano’s village was small and far away, and it 
was not until about the tenth of the month that a 
man came in with the news : “ The Germans are at 
war with the English,” he said, “ and there will be 
pain in the land.” 

They discussed it half the night, and in the morning 
Stefano said : 

“ I will go to the Mission and see. I was going up 
for the great day of our Lady, but now I go a little 
earlier, that is all. And my wife will stay here till I 
return with the news.” 

“ It’s no good thy going,” said the man. “ The 
priests have left.” 

‘‘ I do not believe that the priests will leave,” said 
Stefano. 

“ But I heard on the railway that the Germans had 
taken them, they and the bibis, too. The place is 
empty. Thou canst not go,” said the man. 

“ Bring me food, woman,” said Stefano to his wife. 
“ I go.” 

But it was as the man had said. As he climbed up 
the hill under the orange trees, there were no boys 
in the river below washing their clothes and bathing. 
The gate of the courtyard gaped open, and it seemed 


146 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


silent as the grave within. But Stefano went to the 
priest’s room, and called to come in from habit. 

“ Come in,” said a guttural voice, and Stefano was 
amazed. He stood silently. At that the door was 
flung open, and there appeared in the entrance an 
officer in German uniform. ‘‘ What do you want ? ” 
he asked. 

“ The priest,” said Stefano. 

“ He has gone,” said the German. “ Where do you 
come from ? ” 

Stefano told him, and the man looked him up and 
down a moment. Then he pushed by him and whistled. 
A native askari came running round the corner and 
saluted. “ Take this man and keep him,” said the 
German. ” He can go with the levy to-morrow to 
the rail. That is all.” 

He turned and went inside, shutting the door. 
Stefano stared at it. Then he moved away. “ Not 
that way,” said the man, “ come here.” 

“ I go home,” said Stefano simply. 

“ No you don’t,” said the askari with a broad grin. 
“You go and fight. The capitani say so. You fight 
the English now, and have much fun. You can kill, 
and take women, and you will get much money. 
Come with me.” 

Stefano stood silently, then he turned away. In a 
moment the askari had run round him, and Stefano 
was brought up against a bayonet point. And that 
was how Stefano became a German askari. 

They took him down to the railway, and he spent 
the night with thirty other young men, under lock 
and key and an armed guard, but he was given plenty 
to eat and drink. The rest were all heathen, and 
rather disposed to make merry. They had got over 
their first fear, and the native guard had given them 
visions of glorious things — women and loot and killing. 


STSFANO 


147 


Stefano said very little, but omitted his prayers. He 
felt, dumbly, that God had already omitted him from 
His care of the universe. 

Then ensued a hard three months for the recruits. 
They were taken up country to Arusha, and Stefano 
saw his first snow on the summit of Kilimanjaro. 
They were marched up the mountain side to a boma 
near a Lutheran Mission, whose clergy were all under 
arms except one old man, who preached to the recruits 
once or twice. It seemed God was tired with the 
English for their pride and sin, and that He had spoken 
to His friend, the great Emperor, telling him to set 
the people of Africa free from the yoke of the cruel 
English. So the great Eniperor had gathered his 
armies, and already the English were being swept from 
the earth. 

Stefano pondered these things and kept quiet. 
Maybe he remembered the old map, but he had not 
much time for reflection, since they put him into a 
uniform and gave him a rifle, a bayonet, and a knife, 
and drilled him with the rest from morning till night. 
The others grumbled much at first, and a man even 
refused to clean his rifle one day and sat in the sun 
instead. The next saw a solemn performance which 
impressed Stefano and the rest very much. They 
were formed up and marched under guard to the 
clearing before the boma, where a group of white officers 
were smoking and laughing. The offender then 
appeared between soldiers, and was stripped naked. 
He was then tied up to a framework of wood and 
flogged to death. Thereafter they all drilled satis- 
factorily. 

And then the day came when they moved off. There 
was a stir in the boma, and soon the news got about 
that big guns from one of the victorious German 
men-of-war had been shipped up-country, ready for 


148 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


an advance on the British Uganda Railway. Three 
companies strong, the new levies moved down to 
Arusha to join a considerable force there assembled. 
A week’s marching took them well into British terri- 
tory, and with never a casualty. It was an exciting 
march : one day, at least, had brought them the 
spoil of an enemy’s village, and Stefano’s companions 
had seen blood on their knives. He himself had 
kept apart from the night orgy. Indeed, one of his 
officers, coming on him sitting apart, had asked him, 
as he sprang up to attention, why he was not ‘‘ over 
there.” There, in the light of the fire, a score of half- 
dressed askaris drank beer from the hands of the 
terrified women who were forced to supply them. He 
had merely saluted again, and had as promptly been 
knocked down. He got up and said nothing, but he 
was a marked man. 

So it was the close of the week that brought also 
the close of the story. A night march had carried 
them to within range of the British positions, appa- 
rently unseen. Stefano’s company were set to line 
the thick grass at the head of a kind of glade beyond 
which lay the enemy’s lines. There had been a grim 
speech from their white officer before they got into 
position, and every man knew it was serious business 
now, and death as possible behind as before. They 
lay there, those dark figures, a fit subject for the 
moralist. Drawn into a world-war for causes utterly 
beyond them, at the bidding of theories and move- 
ments as remote (and about as human) as the politics 
of Mars, they confronted, not merely the spears of 
native war, but every hellish device that science has 
perfected for the world’s greatest civilisation fittingly 
to slay with. They knew nothing of them — nothing 
of the screaming, murderous hail of machine-guns, 
nothing of the irresistible shell that tears and maims 




STEFANO 

149 


beyond recognition. Poor “ cannon-fodder,” as pitiful 
as the victims that ancient empires slew in sacrifice 
to bloody gods. 

Stefano, of course, was as ignorant as the rest, and 
nothing in particular occupied his mind. There was 
that look in his eyes that the padre had seen years 
before, but he did not know it. He lay with the rest 
and waited for the word, waited till the last problem 
of his life was offered him. 

Across the end of the glade began to creep a line 
of men unconscious of the hidden enemy. The 
keen native eye saw clearly the tense white faces 
above the khaki, and noticed the very muscles 
that gripped the rifles in their hands. The German 
officer waited a little for his best opportunity, 
and in that moment Stefano gave a short grunt 
of surprise. The German growled a low curse, and 
drove the muzzle of his pistol into the small of the 
boy’s back. But Stefano was too amazed to care. 
There was one man of that file (who ought not indeed 
to have been there) who carried no rifle, and whose 
collar was marked by a black Maltese cross. That 
would have meant nothing to Stefano, but he knew 
the face above the collar. Not since the priest had 
been transferred to Zanzibar, years before, had Stefano 
seen his padre. 

“ Charge ! ” yelled the German behind him. The 
black line sprang up and away, but only as the clatter 
of machine-guns broke out ahead. Not that it mattered 
to Stefano. He had leaped to his feet with the rest, 
but had taken no pace forward. For a second he 
stood motionless, with those troubled eyes, and the 
next he pitched sharply forward with a German bullet 
in his brain. 


That, at least, was what they gathered when, in 


150 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


the evening, the British stretcher-party made their 
way through the glade up and down which the battle 
had swayed. 

Hullo ! '' said an officer, that beggar was shot 
at close range from behind.’' 

The chaplain turned him over — and started. He 
searched his memory for the face, the while mechanically 
opening the tunic to see if there might be a cross. 
Instead he pulled out a greasy bit of string, and a 
medal of St. Michael. It lay in his hand in the fading 
light, till there was that in the eyes of the padre 
which dimmed his vision. 

So they said the familiar words over Stefano’s 
body by the shine of the moon, and his name was 
on the padre’s lips — when next there was opportunity 
to set up a little altar — ^which was all they could do. 
But somewhere — if it be a ‘‘ where ” — Stefano was, 
maybe, finding things simpler than he had found 
them hitherto. 


JUDAS 


151 


CHAPTER XIV 
Judas 

We started together, Father Jim and I, on a Monday, 
and a curious turn-out we made. I rode Johnny, who 
(to me at least) always seems a wise beast ; and that 
morning, with ears a bit back and eyes very cunning, 
he as good as remonstrated with me for going at all 
in such company. And no wonder. Edwin rode his 
beast with a bridle and saddle that held together by 
a miracle, and two friends accompanied him : the one 
in a cap of wild-cat skin and a blanket ; and the other 
in an ancient deer-stalker, a coat that proclaimed, 
with difficulty, that it had originally been Norfolk, 
and a pair of riding breeches which might have been 
useful for bathing, but were certainly not up to much 
for riding. Then there was Benet, combining business 
with pleasure, and burdened with an overcoat, a cassock, 
two blankets and a pile of books, in addition to his 
usual kit. Then there were two packs, the one a 
Government turn-out, kindly lent, and incredibly 
smart ; the other an affair belonging to the Mission 
and composed of the debris of three or four of its 
predecessors. The bags of this were small, so that 
most of the burden had to ride outside ; and a frying- 
pan and a kettle, balanced neatly on either side of 
the roll of blankets, lent a further gipsy air to the 
turn-out. 

However, Edwin’s two friends parted with us the 
next morning, and set off for Sehonghong, a three 
days’ ride through, for the more part, uninhabited 
country, with no more visible sustenance than the 


152 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


bread they had saved from their breakfast ; and when 
we left the Caledon Valley, the boys and packs went 
on ahead, and left me to accommodate myself to 
Father Jim’s leisurely pace. In the remote and 
mosquito-haunted parts from which he hails, they do 
not ride horses — as he, unnecessarily, assured me. 
But we were in no haste, and he and I had a deal 
to say to each other. Except that I didn’t much like 
the look of the weather, it did not matter whether 
we got to Mont aux Sources that week or the 
next. 

We ambled on, therefore, talking desultorily — and 
to a stranger, had there been one, uncomprehensively, 
for words of many languages obtruded, and we mostly 
spoke of our craft — until he noticed an extraordinary 
person bounding down the side of the mountain 
towards us. His dress was a loin-cloth and a sheep- 
skin, and he had a big staff in his hand. He leapt 
from rock to rock, now out of sight, and now nearer 
as he came into view again, until he was near enough 
to be hailed. 

“ Hail ! ” said I politely in Sesuto. " Why do you 
hurry ? ” 

“ Lumela, Morena,” said he. “ Ho nale molumo oa 
pula ! ” 

“ What does he say ? ” asked Jim, as the fellow 
ran on. “ He looks for all the world like a Jewish 
prophet.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ and so he might be. Anyway, 
a Jewish prophet once said exactly what he said : 
‘ Hail, King, there is a sound of rain.’ ” 

“ Good Lord ! ” said the father unfatherly, half 
reining up in astonishment, “ and there is the ‘ Man’s 
Hand ’ ! ” 

Sure enough, there was. Over the high ridge that 
hid our view, into the almost cloudless blue, was 


JUDAS 


153 


sailing a small, black cloud. Almost at once, too, the 
wind got up around us, and the air became filled with 
that strange, low sound that one hears in lands of 
sudden storms — “ the sound of abundance of rain.” 
The heavens grew black with amazing rapidity. We 
urged our horses on, and, when we almost despaired 
of shelter, topped a rise, to see ahead of us a wall of 
cliff, and a large natural cave in which the packs and 
boys were already sheltering. 

” Half-way House ! ” I exclaimed, “ by all that’s 
lucky ! It’s the big cave in which travellers who 
climb the mountain often stop the night, though I 
did not recognise the road to it, as I have been before, 
as I told you, by the road from the Hoek.” 

" Well, we shall spend the night there, too, I 
should say,” said Jim, ” unless the weather changes 
as quickly as it came.” 

He was quite right. The water came down in 
sheets. One bathed by standing outside the over- 
hanging shelf, and never for a second did the noise of 
it cease until after we had made our fire of dried dung, 
and eaten our evening skoff, and lit our pipes before 
the blaze. I must say I was perfectly content. The 
place was a little goaty, for its normal use is to shelter 
goats, and the floor was mainly fit for liso fuel such 
as that which burned on the fire, but that was on the 
whole a convenience, for one had only to scrabble a 
handful of the carpet to replenish the blaze. But it 
grew still more pleasant as the night fell. The earth- 
smell was fresh and clean as it blew in. The stars 
came out by companies. And finally the moon rode 
high, and the shadows stole off the valley at our feet. 

By mutual consent, we got out our office-books, 
and when we had finished I spoke what was in his 
mind, too. 

“ Extraordinary coincidence,” I said. ” 


You 




154 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


noticed that the evening lesson was of Elijah and the 
rain ? '' 

'' Yes/' said he. ‘‘ Eve known the same thing 
before now." 

What, of Elijah ? " I asked. 

No," said he, ‘‘ not of Elijah, but equally strange 
coincidences of other people." 

He paused rather abruptly. ‘‘ Whom ? " I asked, 
expectantly. 

'' Well," he answered, “ you've just brought the 
story to my mind. It isn't very pleasant." 

I couldn't help it," I persisted. Of whom is it ? " 

Judas," said he, and fell on silence. 

It's no good, Jim," said I, after a little, you 
must tell me the story." 

And he did. 


When I was first ordained," he said, I went to a 
Mission in which were two other men, both my senior : 
the Rector, a very able priest, and his colleague, an 
extremely pleasant person a little younger. Father 
Gerard was one of the most delightful people I have 
ever met, and a great success. He had an admirable 
gift of genial repartee, and a perfect fund of stories, 
so that he made the best dinner companion in the 
world. He was always being asked out, and as either 
the Rector or myself were usually included in the 
invitation, we were rather glad of it. He had a 
rollicking way with the poor, too, and got in the dues 
with more success and less trouble than either of us. 
Then he had a great power in the pulpit. I've seen 
a packed congregation moved to the last man, and 
he never hesitated to make them smile either. His 
confessional was crowded, too ; he certainly confessed 
the majority of the women in the parish. And 


JUDAS 


155 


children loved him: there was no escape from that. 
Old Sister Mary Ancila used to vow that the very 
babies did not cry when he christened them ! 

“ He and I were very good friends. I confess I 
liked him. I used to think that he rather loved his 
success, and that he rather grasped after it, but 
otherwise he was always companionable. He’d come 
in most evenings that we were both free, and often 
help me in the sermons I found rather difficult. He’d 
sit opposite the fire in my big chair, smoking, and toss 
off, in a minute, thoughts and expressions that would 
have taken me an hour or two to work out ; and 
he’d do it in his merry way, laughing at my hesitancies 
if he suggested anything a little unusual. ‘ Well,’ I 
would say, ruefully, when he had finished, ‘ the only 
trouble is that everybody will know that it is you 
and not I.’ ‘ Not when you’re in the pulpit,’ he 

would return banteringly. 

" Well, then, so things went, till the second of Novem- 
ber, All Souls’ Day. I was to sing the big Mass, and 
Father 'Gerard was to say one first, for a particular 
person whose year’s mind it was, which meant that 
he was up nearly an hour before me. I was just 
finishing dressing when I heard a hurried step on the 
stairs, and the door of my room was pushed violently 
open. Gerard stumbled in, in his cassock, with a 
face white and drawn and horror-stricken as if he 
had aged ten years and seen a tragedy. I dropped 
my hair-brush and rushed towards him. 

“ ‘ Whatever is it, Gerard ? ’ I demanded. 

“ He said not a word. He just stood gazing at 
me with those terrified eyes, swaying slightly. ‘ What- 
ever is it, old fellow ? ’ I repeated. 

“ With that, he opened his mouth as if to speak, 
but no sound came, only he staggered forward a foot 
or two, and fell on the bed. 


156 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


I was by him in a moment. ‘ Are you ill ? ' I 
asked. He shook his head. ' Well, Til call the Rector,’ 
I said, ‘ an 5 rway ’ ; but at that he seized my arm and 
shook his head still more. 

‘ All right,’ said I, ‘ but I’ll get some brandy : 
that will pull you round.’ 

I fetched the spirit, and after a bit he seemed 
better. 

‘‘ ' Now, what is it ? ’ I repeated. 

‘ The Host,’ he said stumblingly ; ‘ it was taken 
from my hands.’ 

‘ Taken from your hands ! ’ I said. ‘ What do 
you mean, man ? Was there sacrilege done ? Speak 
up.’ I shook him. ' Perhaps we ought to do something 
at once.’ 

‘ Not that,’ he said feebly, ' not that. Nobody 
took it. It went.’ 

“ ' What ? ’ I echoed. ‘ Come, Gerard, pull your- 
self together and tell me. How could it go ? What 
do you mean ? ’ 

I got the story out of him at last, and when it 
was over, stood staring there, almost as upset as he 
was. This is what he said. 

'' He had vested and gone to the altar as usual, 
and had gone on with Mass perfectly normally. He 
made the oblations, said the Sursum Corda, and the 
Sanctus and the BenedictuSy and began on the Canon 
as usual. He had blessed the sacred elements accord- 
ing to the rubric and was sure that nothing was wrong, 
but after he had raised his eyes for one minute, saying : 
‘ Hear us, O merciful Father,’ on lowering them 
again, he saw that the priest’s Host was gone. In 
his own words : 

* 1 was amazed, Jim. I was positive that the 
wafer was there a second before, and equally it was 
not there then. My first thought was that perhaps 


JUDAS 


157 


the vestments had brushed it aside at my movement, 
but it was not on the floor. Then I thought a gust 
of wind had perhaps blown it along the altar, but 
it was not there, and besides there had been no wind ; 
then I suppose my feelings overcame me, for I swayed 
a bit, and the server — that big chap, Thomas, you 
know, leaned forward and said : “ Are you ill, father ? ” 
I think I said ; “ There’s no Host,” or something like 
that ; anyway, he looked perplexed, and whispered : 
“ I saw you place it, father.” Then I think I stood a 
minute staring at him, for he whispered at length : 
“Shall I get one, father?” And then I said; “No: 
vestry,” and he helped me down. I had wit enough 
to fold the corporal and bring the chalice away, and 
then I threw off my vestments and came to you. 
Oh, Jim, Jim, I’m accursed!’ 

“ When he had finished, I stood as I have said ; 
then I asked : ‘ Was there anyone in church ? ’ 

“ ‘ Just Mr. Lancing and his daughter ’ he replied, 
naming the father and sister of the dead girl for whom 
he had been saying Mass. 

” ‘ They’ll suppose you ill,’ I said, ‘ and they’d 
better; but come, Gerard, this is* madness; I’ll go 
and see for myself.’ 

“ ‘ All right,’ he said, ‘ I’ll wait here.’ 

“ I slipped on my cassock and went down to the 
hall. I was just stepping into the sacristy, when 
the bell rang, and guessing who was there, I opened it. 

“ ‘ Is Father Gerard ill, father ? ’ asked Mr. Lancing. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said I, ‘ but nothing much. I’m so sorry 
about the Mass ; I’ll pray for Edith myself, especially 
at High Mass.’ 

“ He said something, and turned off, when his 
daughter added : ‘ Tell Father Gerard, father, will 
you, that I’m so sorry, but I hope it won’t matter ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said I, and passed on to the sacristy. 


158 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


'' On the table were the tumbled vestments. I 
went over to the place before the crucifix where the 
chalice stood, and uncovered it. Then I think I was 
nearly as amazed as Gerard had been. In the paten 
lay a priest's Host. 

I called Thomas, who was lingering in the vestry. 
No, he had not touched the vessels. He had done 
nothing but take off his cotta and cassock. He 
hoped Father Gerard was not ill. 

I sent him home and walked slowly back to my 
bedroom. I supposed, inwardly, that Gerard must 
have been really ill, but it was an extraordinary 
illness. The Host lying where it did, it must absolutely 
have been that he did not see it. Yet he said he had 
placed it as usual on the corporal. Then how could 
it possibly have got back to the paten, or why should 
he not have seen it there ? I was utterly bewildered, 
and if everything had not looked so ordinary, I 
should have been frightened. 

“ ‘ Well ? ' queried Gerard as I went in. 

‘‘ ‘ The host was on the paten beneath the veil,' 
said I. He stared at me. ‘ But I — perhaps Thomas 
found it ? ' he ventured. 

‘‘ ‘ He said not,' said I. 

Again a silence fell between us. ‘ Come,' I said 
at length, ‘ you must have been ill, Gerard. I met 
Lancing at the door, and his daughter Ruth, and gave 
them to understand so. You'd better lie down. 
I'll tell the Rector you're not well. The Lancings 
said they hoped you'd soon be all right, and that it 
wouldn't matter.' 

“ ' The Lancings ? ' he asked sharply. 

“ ‘ Yes, who else ? ' I said patiently, thinking him 
still unwell. 

‘‘ ‘ Did the father or the daughter say that ? ' he 
repeated. 


JUDAS 


159 


“ ‘ Oh, the daughter, I think,’ said I, ‘ but go and 
lie down now.’ 

“ The morning passed, and at lunch Gerard said 
he was better. (We just told the Rector that 
he had been taken faint at Mass and kept silence 
otherwise between ourselves.) After lunch he said 
he should go round and see the doctor and get a medicine 
of some sort, and I went off visiting. At tea the 
Rector and I were alone, but we thought nothing 
of that at all until, just as we finished, the maid 
knocked at the door, and said to the Rector : 

“ ‘ Mr. Lancing to see you, father.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, show him in,’ said the priest, ‘ and bring 
another cup. No, don’t bother ; Father Gerard 
is out, and his will do.’ 

“ She went out, and in a minute Lancing came in. 

“ ‘ What’s the matter ? ’ we exclaimed simultaneously 
at sight of his face. 

He shut the door. ‘ Where’s Gerard ? ’ he said. 

“ ‘ Out,’ said the Rector, surprised at his abruptness. 
‘ Why ? ’ 

“ Lancing seemed about to speak. Then he choked 
a little in his throat, made a movement, and pushed 
a paper into the Rector’s hands. ‘ Read that,’ he 
said. It was a short letter. 

“ ‘ Dear Father (it ran), 

“ ‘ When you find this, I shall have left home. 
You know I have always wanted to do so, and for 
a long time I have not believed the Faith as you and 
Mother believe it. I’m going to be married, and as 
you would not have liked it in any case, and there 
is a reason why it must be done quickly, it is better 
done so. Try and forgive me. “ Ruth.” 

“ ‘ Mr. Lancing, I’m so sorry ’ — began the Rector, 
correctly, and then saw something in the other’s 
face. ‘ Good God,’ he said, ‘ you don’t mean — Gerard ? ’ 


160 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


“ The other made a quick gesture. ‘ The servant 
saw them leave the house together at a little after 
two,’ he said hopelessly. 

“ None of us said anything more, I remember. 
The Rector sat with his head in his hands ; Lancing, 
coldly as I thought, poured himself a cup of tea. 
I stared at him foolishly, and tried not to remember 
a thousand little things that looked like the conclusion 
we dreaded. ‘ Just go to his room and look,’ said 
the Rector to me presently. It did not take a minute. 
A handbag and a few toilet necessaries had gone. 
There was no letter. I came back. They both looked 
up as I opened the door. I remember I just nodded. 

“ Well, we had to do the work. I said Evensong 
and the Rector read the lessons. As he got into 
the second, his voice faltered, and recalled me. He 
read ; 

“ ‘ Then entered Satan into Judas surnamed Iscariot, 
being of the number of the twelve. And he went 
his way, and communed with the chief priests and 
captains, how he might betray Him unto them. And 
they were glad, and covenanted to give him money. 
And he promised, and sought opportunity to betray 
Him unto them in the absence of the multitude. . . . 

“ ‘ And when the hour was come, Jesus sat down 
and the twelve apostles with Him, . . . And He took 
bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto 
them, saying. This is My Body which is given for you : 
this do in remembrance of Me. Likewise also the cup 
after supper, saying. This cup is the New Testament 
in My Blood, which is shed for you. 

“ ‘ But, behold; the hand of him that betrayeth 
Me is with Me on the table.’ 

“ On my honour, I had hardly remembered the 
events of the morning in the shock of the evening. 
But at that I looked up and saw where the hand of 


JUDAS 


161 


him who had planned so gross a betrayal for that 
very day had lain upon the table. And as I remem- 
bered the sign, I feared for myself, lest I — one day — 
might — Satan is very strong. , . 


Father Jim leaned forward and held his hands 
nearer the fire. I looked at the set, stern face, and 
wondered at how it had changed. But I ventured 
to ask : “ What of him now, father ? ” 

“ Oh, you’d know the name, probably, if I told you,” 
he said, rather bitterly. “ The modern Judas puts 
out his thirty pieces of silver to a good interest, and 
doesn’t fool it away. He and his clever wife are big 
people, very popular, too, and charitable. She’s a 
Unitarian I believe ; I don’t think he goes anywhere. . . 
Let’s turn in ; It is night.” 


162 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


CHAPTER XV 
The Midnight Mass 

The small sounds of the hospital ward only seemed 
to emphasise the silence of the night. A man muttering 
or groaning in his sleep ; the fall of a coal in the grate ; 
the creak of a bed as a patient turned restlessly ; and 
those strange cracks that sound in the boards, however 
truly laid ; all these the watcher noted one by one. 
Then, far away, a clock told the hour, and the sleeper 
stirred. 

“ Was that eleven, father ? ” he asked in the faint 
voice the other hardly knew. 

“Yes,” said the priest ; “ But you go to sleep now.” 

“ Eleven,” said the other, half to himself ; “ the 

bells will go for the Midnight Mass soon — all over 
the world will they ring. God must be glad that 
His Church watches with the shepherds and angels 
and the holy dead, while the heathen sleep. And the 
angels and the dead are glad too. I shall be glad soon. 
Glad to be able to watch, too. . . . Father ! ” 

“ Yes,” answered the other again. 

“ Did you know that the angels and the dead were 
glad of the Midnight Mass ? ” 

“Well”. . . hesitated the other; “yes, I think so. 
Only not specially of that Mass. But you must sleep 
now.” 

“ Sleep ? I can’t sleep more now. I don’t want 
to sleep. I’m in no pain now, and I would rather lie 
awake like this till perhaps I shall hear the bell of His 
birth in some church. I think I shall hear the bell of 
His birth, and perhaps I shall see Him, too, by twelve 


THE MIDNIGHT MASS 163 


o’clock. Besides, I want to tell you something. I must. 
I have never told anyone — about the angels and the 
holy dead at the Midnight Mass. It was in Africa, you 
know ; the year before I volunteered, the first year 
of war. May I tell it you, father ? ” 

The watcher glanced round uneasily. He really 
did not know what to do. He was under strict orders 
to see that the sick man — a badly wounded priest- 
soldier from the Somme — ^lay still and slept. They 
had been friends long ago, but the one had gone to 
South Africa, and the other had become engrossed 
in a big English parish, until the war had thrown 
them together again. It had thrown them together 
strangely too. He had become a regular visitor 
at the new military hospital in the parish, and one 
evening, as he was about to leave, he had been called 
to a new case. It was his old friend who had enlisted 
in 1915, and fallen at last on the Somme. He was 
very ill, they said. So he had asked to watch the 
night by his side, for the sick man knew him, and 
seemed to wish it. He had gone for the Sacraments, 
and done all he could that way. He would never forget, 
he told himself, how eagerly, but how weakly, the 
soldier, who was a priest himself, had told his sin, 
and received our Lord, and then, with the Anointing 
scarcely over, had folded his hands and slept. It 

had not seemed that he would need to watch for long 

But what now should he do ? He glanced round 
again for the nurse. 

The other moved ever so little. “ Father,” he 
said, “ let me call you ‘ father,’ Tom, for it’s the 
priest I want in you so badly now — don’t worry. I’m 
all right. Don’t call nurse. I just want to tell you 
something which I ought, I think, to have told before. 
Then I’ll sleep. I can do it easily, if you’ll bend a bit 
to listen. It’s not a long story. . . .” 


164 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


The listener felt a great surge of tenderness rise 
in him. He slipped to his knees, and took one of those 
weak hands. “ All right, old fellow,” he said, “ tell 
me — just as you like ; I’ll understand.” 

So the other told. He did not look at his listener 
as he spoke, partly, perhaps, because he was so wounded 
that he could not easily turn his head ; but to the priest 
it seemed that the dying man saw again, as the 
sentences trickled painfully out the things that 
he had seen. In any case, time and place slipped 
away to that listener. He was in the African village 
under the clear shining of the moon, with the crickets 
busy in the shaded trees. 

“ Christmas, 1914, it was, Tom, and we had a very 
busy time. I think I wrote you once about the parish. 
There’s a little path runs down from the Rectory, past 
some big deodars, to the gate in the wall ; and across 
the road, by itself in an open space of grass, stands 
the church — the Church of our All-Holy and Merciful 
Saviour, they called it, an Eastern dedication I think. 
Then beyond the church is the wall of the sisters’ 
garden, and that, too, has a little path that runs 
through trees to St. Mary’s — a very beautiful little 
place, it always seemed to me. I expect it was ordinary 
to them, but it seemed holy to me. The flowers 
seemed holy there — I don’t know why. Imagination, 
I suppose. . . . (He paused a little. The other knelt 
on silently.) 

“ What was I saying ? Oh yes ! that Christmas. 
We had a very busy time. All the communicants were 
in church for a preparation about eight p.m. — full 
it was, and we had many confessions afterwards. 
I had been shriving all day, and when the last left 
me about ten, I was very tired. They couldn’t 
help coming late, you know. Poor souls — it is a long 
way from some of the out-stations. When will we 


THE MIDNIGHT MASS 165 


have simple native priests ? They will try to teach 
them so much that’s no good. The folk want sacra- 
ments, not Jewish history. . . , But that’s not it. . . 
I must go back. . . Where was I ? . . . 

“ Oh yes, I remember. Well, about ten I thought I 
must j ust go and lie down for an hour. I was a bit ashamed 
to go because of what the Master said — you remember : 

‘ Could ye not watch one hour ? ’ But I went. I was 
very tired, Tom. I’d been thinking furiously about 
the war, you see, and I’d made up my mind to go, 
although nobody knew it then. But I was not sure 
that I was right, and so I was worried. I didn’t 
watch. That’s just it — I did not watch. . . . Not 
then nor afterwards. So is it written : ‘ And when 
I looked there was no man — no man’ (his voice 
tailed off). 

" Well, I went to lie down. I don’t think I slept. 
An3rway, at eleven I got up wide awake, and I bathed 
my face and hands in cold water so that I was quite 
fresh. There was a little wind blowing when I 
opened the door : I could hear it among the trees ; 
and there was a full moon. It was like Paradise out 
of doors. I could see the mountains, all black and 
silver, through the trees, and there was a sweet scent of 
tobacco-plant flowers in the air. I thought our Lord 
must have arranged it so that night for the joy of His 
Mother. 

“ So I walked down to the gate, and when I got 
there I saw three men standing in the path, their 
backs to me. They wore blankets as our people do, 
and they were looking through the gate across the road. 
They did not move as I came near, and I thought 
they could not have heard me. I wondered what 
they were doing there at that time, too, so I greeted 
them and said : ‘ Do you want anything ? ’ 

“ But they took no notice. I thought they could 


166 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


not have heard, so I spoke again, and stepping between 
them, put out my hand to the shoulder of the nearest. 
Then I knew in a second, for I touched nothing. 

* A spirit hath not flesh and bones as ye see Me 
have ’ — that was what I thought suddenly, I don't 
know why. Maybe our Lord said it to me that I 
should not be fearful, thinking of Him. Anyway, I 
was not a bit afraid, and it did not seem strange that 
I should not be. I just passed between them, 
and stepped to the gate, opened it, and went through. 
Then I saw that the grass was covered with people, 
in twos and threes, some moving, some sitting. I 
walked on as one who walks on air. I don't know now 
who they were — some our own living folks, perhaps, 
and some the dead. But I did not think at all — that 
is the strange part of it. I just walked right through 
them to the little porch, touching no one and speaking 
to no one, with that strange exultation thrilling 
through me. 

You won't know the porch, father. It's on the 
south side, at right angles to the building, and one 
can't see those inside until one is within the porch 
itself. There is a door from the porch to the church, 
but only the entrance way from the porch to the 
outside, and I came in swiftly on rubber shoes. 

In the porch I stopped to take holy water, and 
stood there, with my hand on the stoop, rigid. For 
the church was full of people. I had not expected 
it a bit. I thought, as always, that some would 
keep the vigil, but not that I should see the place full. 
The few benches were packed, but most of the people, 
as they have to do, sat on the floor tight together. 
The sisters, and a church officer or two, were moving 
about putting children into the pulpit out of the way, 
and so on ; but the rest were still enough. They 
made some sounds, though. I should have said that 


167 


THE MIDNIGHT MASS 


I heard, as it were, people sighing. I thought at first 
they were the dead, like those outside, but then I saw 
some I knew, and thought that all lived. Now I don’t 
know who were alive and who were dead ; perhaps 
both were there 

“ So I passed in. I was almost laughing in my 
heart with gladness, and I touched little children, 
who smiled at me, that I might pass through to the 
sanctuary. There, then, I knelt, and since it wanted 
nearly twenty minutes yet to Mass, I took out my 
rosary, and said that we would say it together. Dark 
it was, inside, with only a lamp or two, and the 
sanctuary light. The white-draped altar and the 
candles gleamed in the glow, however, and as we sat 
or knelt, we prayed. ‘ Jesus — Mary,’ ‘ Jesus — 
Mary ’ — the words rocked backwards and forwards 
among us, as we responded each to each. Oh! but 
it was the atmosphere of Heaven. . . . 

“ Why does one not want that more, on earth, 
father ? We get glimpses, you know, and they are so 
wonderful. . . . And yet, one does not even want them 
at times. Out there, in that Hell, I didn’t want them. 
I doubt one does, in Hell. . . . That’s the awful thing, 
father. Do you know what I wanted, out there ? 
Yes, yes, you do know. . . . Oh, my God I that I should 
have wanted such things, and wanted them there . . . .” 

(The sick man’s lips closed tightly. The watcher 
felt a tremor as of cold pass through him. He could 
not have spoken, only he pressed the hand he held 
ever so slightly, and he prayed — strange prayers. 
“ Oh, my God I oh, my God !....” that was all he said.) 

“ Well, at twenty past — it’s that now, father, isn’t 
it ? — I went to the sacristy. Oh, I love the Christmas 
sacristy 1 There was bruised fir before the figure 
of our Lady, and it smelled so sweet. They had lit 
the censer too, and the white and gold of the vestments 


168 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


shone like a saint's robe. The boys looked eager and 
expectant : we were all wonderfully glad somehow. 
And so I got to the altar. 

We had a very simple Mass : we did not know 
any proper introits or things. They sang ‘Once in 
Royal David's City ' at the entry instead, and they did 
sing it well, too. I could hardly say the Preparation, 
with Philip and Peter, the dear, eager lads. And so it went 
on. I preached a little sermon — if you believe me, 
with shut eyes. I couldn't look at the people somehow. 
Indeed I never saw them until I turned for the Sursum 
Corda. I should have turned back I know, but I could 
not. I lifted my hands and looked full at them and 
saw — oh, father ! what did I see ? 

'' I hardly know. The church was one sea of faces 
in that dim light. It was one black sea. But the 
faces that gazed up to me were not all on the floor 
level, if you can understand. It was like looking 
at a packed theatre from the stage, where one sees 
tier on tier. It was not strange, you understand : 
quite natural rather — only the chairs and forms 
are not really in tiers. So I knew there were more 
than the living visible to me that night. And I looked 
up, and I sang — how it seemed to me that I sang ! — 

*''Lift up your hearts,* 

“And they replied to me, all of them. It was like 
the sound of many waters. It thundered about me ; 
it beat upon my ears ; it seemed to go on and on. 
I stood, as I thought, like one spell-bound for ages 
and ages while that reply rang in my ears — 

‘ We lift them up unto the Lord* 

“Then it seemed that it ceased, and as from very, 
very far away my own voice came to me, thin and clear — 

'''Let us give thanks unto our Lord God* 


THE MIDNIGHT MASS 169 


“ So I turned back to the altar, and soon, as our 
custom was, I was kneeling on the bottom step with 
the boys about me, while acolytes placed lighted 
candles on the altar, and we all sang together — 

“‘0 come, all ye faithful, 

Joyful and triumphant, 

0 come ye, 0 come ye, to Bethlehem. . . . ’ 

“ The rest of the Mass was, for me, on a lower key, 
as it were. I was just happily elated, no more, only 
as we passed down to the Crib singing our Mary hymn 
at the close of the Eucharist, I looked right and left 
on the faces that I passed, and there were none but 
the living there. Nor did I see more that night.” 


“Yes, father, I know what you are thinking — that 
it was a beautiful dream, born perhaps of my fasting 
and weariness ; but listen. I said nothing to any- 
one — I have not to this night — but two days later 
the principal sister of our little branch-house came to 
me. 

“ ‘ Father,’ she said. ‘ Will you please say a Mass 
with special intention for me ? ’ 

“ ‘ ’i^y, yes, sister,’ I said, ‘ gladly. For what 
shall I say it ? ’ 

“ She hesitated. ‘ I don’t quite know how to say 
it,’ she said, ‘ nor if I shall ask aright. Can one pray 
for the heathen dead ? ’ 

“ I started, and stared at her. ‘ The heathen 
dead ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said she. ‘ Supposing, father, some — 
many — had died here, as they have died, who never 
had a chance of hearing, might one not pray for 
them ? ’ 

“ ‘ Sister,’ said I, ‘ you have something to say. 
Tell me.’ 

“ ‘ But I hardly like to, father,’ said she, clasping 

M 


170 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


and unclasping her hands. ‘ You may think me 
foolish, but it is like this. On Christmas Eve, as I 
was leaving the church, the last of all, to go home, 

I was surprised to find many people on the path 
leading to the Home. The people wore blankets, but 
I could not see their faces in the shade. Half-way 
to the gate, there were some who blocked my path, 
and I asked them to move. They did not take any 
notice, so I put out my hand to pull at the blanket 
of a woman. Well, father, my fingers closed on the 
blanket, and passed through it ; there was nothing 
there. I wasn't in the least frightened, only as I 
went quickly home I saw that the garden, too, was * 
full of them. I went to sleep quite easily, feeling 
only very, very grateful for that wonderful Mass and 
the way the people sang. But now I feel that God 
sent me that vision for some purpose, and that maybe 
the dead who have died here are hearing the voice of 
the Son of God, and need our prayers.' 

She ceased, and I stared at her a little long. ‘ I 
am sorry, father, if you think it foolish . . . she 
began ; but I cut her short. I had decided to say 
nothing, but just to offer the sacrifice. I thought 
it was better, perhaps, for her not to know that I 
too had seen. 

‘ It is not a bit foolish, sister,' said I. ‘I think 
you should thank God for His great mercy, and I 
will sacrifice for all poor souls as soon as I can.' 

“ But, oh, Tom, even then I did not know ! I 
did not see why God had sent me the vision, and I 
went to the Front and left my people. My hands are 
red with blood, now, father. . . . But yours are not. 
Will you go on with my masses, father, each year, 
as soon after Christmas, always, as you can ? Will 
you ? " 

The other knew that his eyes were full of unshed 




THE MIDNIGHT MASS 

171 


tears, but he did not care. “ Every year, old man, 
every year,” was all he said — huskily. 

And then, in the silence, the sick man half moved 
again. “ Do you hear it, Tom ? ” he whispered, " do 
you hear it ? ” 

” What ? ” cried the other, a little fearful. 

But the sick man answered Tom not at all. 

” It is meet and right so to do,” he sang in a feeble, 
choked voice, but with his eyes afire. . . . 

At that voice the watcher bent his head to his 
hands and cried on our Lord, and so stayed. Neverthe- 
less it was but a few seconds later that he heard the 
sound of the nurse behind him as she moved closer to 
the bed. 

“ He is with them, father,” she was saying brokenly. 




172 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


CHAPTER XVI 

The Acts of the Holy Apostles 

Halsbury is only twenty miles from London, and 
when the 5.20 King’s Cross express from the North 
pulled up there, the very engine itself seemed annoyed 
at the break in the run almost on the terminus. The 
5.20 usually slid through Halsbury with a roar, the 
half-dozen-odd people on the sleepy little platform 
backing against the wall of the station to let her pass. 
But she stopped for each of the three days of the 
big horse market, and found a Halsbury transformed. 
So it came about that the young man who stepped 
out smartly with a suit case in one hand and a small 
gladstone in the other, and then turned to pull out 
after him an overcoat and a few books, found him- 
self unaided in that operation and equally abandoned 
afterwards. 

He collected his goods, and looked about him as 
if expecting to be met. The little place seethed with 
horsey-looking individuals, and the occasional porter 
who met his eye appeared to be engaged on business 
of life and death. Merton himself stood irresolutely 
for a little, accosted a person in uniform who had 
scarcely time to jerk out '' Busy, sir,” and then walked 
the length of the platform inquiringly. Nobody had 
so much as a glance for him. He found himself back 
at his luggage in a little, and stood by it to wait till 
the train left the station. ” Tm in for it now,’'' he 
said to himself, and pulled out his pocket-book to 
make sure of the clue. ‘‘ "Anathoth,’ ” he read slowly. 
‘‘ Blest if I know how to pronounce the name even ! ” 


THE ACTS OP THE HOLY APOSTLES 173 


The inevitable whistle came at last, and the 5.20 
snorted herself off. The crowd thinned a bit. Merton 
caught sight of a porter mopping his face with a red 
handkerchief, and darted at him. I say,'' he said, 
“ I expected to be met, and there's nobody here. Do 
you know a house named ‘ Anathoth ' hereabouts ? " 
‘‘ Named what, mister ? " said the man. 
“‘Anathoth,"' read Merton, pulling out the card 
again. 

“ Never 'eaid no name like that, sir," said the 
porter — “ outlandish sort of name. Can I have a 
look at the card, sir ? " 

“ Yes," said Merton, and handed it over. 

“ The Rev. Father Borromeo Mary Sidonia, 
Anathoth y 

Halsbury, 

read the man stumblingly : “ No, sir, ain't never 
'eard of 'im, sir," he said. “ Sounds foreign like. 
I'll ask my mate." He went off, and returned with 
another man in a minute or so. 

The two of them turned the card over and shook their 
heads. Merton began to be anxious to be off, and 
tried an explanation. “ He is a Catholic priest," he 
said, “ and lives about a mile away, I think." 

“ Lor' bless me. Bill," exclaimed the other porter, 
“ 'e means the priest up at the Cross ! " And then, 
turning to Merton : “Is that who you mean, sir ? " 
“ I don't know anything about the Cross," said 
Merton, “ but it's a Catholic priest who lives at 
‘ Anathoth,' Halsbury, that I'm wanting, and I don't 
suppose there are two about. How can I get out to 
the Cross, anyway ? " 

“ 'E wants the priest at the Cross ! " said the first 
man, staring at him, and Merton became conscious that 
both were looking at him queerly. An inspector 


174 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


joined the group and had the news broken to him. He 
stared likewise. Merton began to feel foolish. '' Well, 
how can I get there,'' he said impatiently. Is there 
a cab about ? " 

The inspector roused himself, and picked up the 
gladstone. '' No, sir," he said, I don't think so. 
Town's very full to-day, sir. But I think they've got 
a trap at the Railway Arms that'll take you out. 
Come this way, sir." 

At the Railway Arms, Leonard Merton discovered 
that his desire to go to The Cross " provoked the same 
kind of surprise as before. The ostler thought '' as 
'ow, if the gen'leman really want to go to the Cross," 
they could find a trap to take him ; but when, in half 
an hour or so, he drove out of the station yard, it was 
to leave a little group behind him, staring after the 
departing trap as if they expected to see neither it nor 
its occupants again. 

Merton thought he would glean a little information. 
'' Has Father Borromeo been here long ? " he asked his 
driver. That worthy flicked up his horse and moved 
a bit on his seat before replying oracularly, Not so 
long, sir." 

‘‘ Are there many Roman Catholics hereabouts ? " 
hazarded Leonard, after an interval. 

'' So and so, as you might say," said his Jehu. 

Whereabouts is the house ? " pursued his passenger 
cheerfully. 

You'll see it in a minute or two, sir," was the 
answer — ''over there"; and the whip indicated the 
north-eastein horizon with a generous charity. 

Merton gave it up at that, and followed his own 
reflections as the trap jolted down the country lane. 
He had met Father Borromeo the term before at 
Oxford, at an "At Home," given chiefly for Roman 
Catholic students, to which he had been taken by a 


THE ACTS OP THE HOLY APOSTLES 175 


friend. Merton was perplexed by the phenomenon of 
Catholicity, and the arrival of Father Borromeo after 
thirty-odd years’ exile in the heart of South America 
had given him the chance of meeting a genuine Catholic 
missionary of the old type. He remembered his 
introduction to the spare, quiet figure in the old cassock 
who seemed so out of place among the teacups and 
trivial talk, and who nevertheless carried himself as 
if he created his own atmosphere, and was not troubled 
at all by that in which he might chance to be. “ May 
I introduce Mr. Merton, father ? ” his friend had said ; 
“ he is very interested in American Missions ; ” and he 
could still recall his amazement as the old priest’s 
face instantly lit up, his keen old eyes literally blazing 
with fire, the words pouring from him who had hitherto 
been silent with an utter disregard of what is usually 
considered talk for a drawing-room. One or two about 
them began to listen, he remembered, and he had felt 
a curious sensation of deception, so that he had said, 
seizing a chance pause : " I think I ought to tell you, 
father, that I am not a Catholic.” And even now he 
had that strange sense, half of shock, half of fear, as 
the old man had instantly asked, without a trace of 
self-consciousness and without the faintest lowering 
of his voice : “ Oh, but you love our Lord, do you not, 
Mr. Merton ? ” 

They had seen each other twice and exchanged a letter 
or two since then, and so it came about that Merton was 
on his way, after a vacation in the north, to spend 
a few days at “Anathoth,” which was some sort of 
monastery for a purpose a little indistinct to the visitor. 
He had purposely been vague as to the length of his 
stay. Would he get enough to eat ? he wondered ; 
and somehow he was already conscious that that 
atmosphere about the father carried with it a demand 
for complete response, or would create an intolerable 


176 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


situation before very long. Merton was doubtful if he 
would respond at all, and he had a kind of feeling that 
if he submitted to it, his very world would be turned 
upside down. He almost wished he had not come, and 
yet he was conscious of an attraction to the old priest 
the like of which he had never felt before for anyone. 
Well, anyway, he could make an excuse and go when 
he pleased ; he was not in mediaeval Europe or 

‘‘ That's the house, sir," said the driver ; '' you can 
see the Cross." 

Merton glanced over the fields and gave a start of 
surprise. Towering above the hedges was a great 
black '' tau " cross, the weirdest of all possible objects 
in the English pastoral scenery, and behind it, half- 
hidden as yet, a new, red-brick house. The cross 
is over the gate, sir," added the man, without looking 
at him. 

The trap turned a corner, and stopped in a minute 
or two before a gate and a house which caused the 
visitor to sit still on his seat for a minute in dumb 
surprise. Then he glanced round. Yes, it was an 
ordinary English lane of the home counties, and the 
house was a perfectly modern, biggish building, com- 
pleted in red brick and blue slate, but in a garden 
mostly untended, except where some potatoes and cab- 
bages grew healthily along the (Jrive. A big coach- 
house stood a little to the right, but the yard had never 
been finished and obviously there were no horses. 
The gate was the biggish five-barred affair that you 
would associate with the house, but the enormous 
black cross he had seen sprang from the side-posts, 
and across the top bar, in black letters on a red ground, 
ran the words : The House where Jesus lives." On 
one gate-post was painted an open Bible, and on the 
other the sign of the Blessed Sacrament. 

This is the house, sir," said the driver, looking 


THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 177 


at him curiously, and recalling Merton to his 
senses. 

“ Oh, yes,” he said, jumping down before that amazing 
gate as if he had been used to the like all his life ; ” sling 
out my bags, will you ? ” Just then, however, a lad 
of about eighteen, in a tattered pair of trousers and the 
shirt of a rustic, appeared from the garden in which 
he had apparently been working, and, all smiles, 
approached the visitor. Merton, supposing him to be 
the gardener, told him to take the baggage ; and, without 
paying him more attention, paid his driver, and 
turned towards the house. He was in time to see 
“ the gardener ” enter the front door with his bags, 
and as he reached the step, the father himself hurried 
out. “ Welcome to ‘ Anathoth,’ Mr. Merton,” he said ; 
“ we are delighted to have you. But when did you 
come ? Brother John met the 4.30 train, and when 
you were not in it,, we thought you had put off your 
visit. But it doesn’t matter ; you are here. Come in. 
Come this way. Let me take you at once to the Author 
and Director of our work. Through here. Will 
you go in ? ” 

As he spoke, Merton, who had been sufficiently 
surprised already by the hall, passed into a room on 
the right which he took to be the drawing-room — or 
whatever they called it — expecting to meet some 
other priest of whom he had not before heaid. He was 
dumbfounded at what he found. He was in the 
chapel, and no one was there. He glanced back at 
his host, but he was already on his knees, and praying, 
as was evident, with a sincerity not for an instant 
to be denied. Merton glanced back ashamed. Then 
he noted the Tabernacle, and he, too, kneeled in an 
attitude of prayer. And the silence fell on them. 

Looking back afterwards on the few minutes that 
followed, Leonard realised that in them he had his 


178 THE DRIFT OP PINIONS 


first sense that this visit was to be utterly unlike 
anything that he had imagined or experienced. At 
first he knelt with his head in his hands, a little ashamed, 
very bewildered, and chiefly conscious that he was 
very glad of the silence. Then he silently surveyed 
the chapel, and his bewilderment so much increased 
that he was aware that it had passed into something 
deeper. And then — he has described it to me a little 
shamefacedly — an extraordinary change passed over 
him. He let his head sink into his hands again. For 
some unknown reason his emotion grew until he could 
have wept silently and gladly. He felt like a tired 
child who had found his mother’s breast. Words 
that he had hitherto secretly known to be, beautiful 
as they were, no part of his eager life, forced themselves 
into his mind. He realised, suddenly, that his study 
and his pleasure, his zeal for debate and his leligious 
search, had made him very tired. And here was 

Rest”.... 

They left the chapel together, and went out to the 
bare-boarded staircase, the father going first, and 
Merton following silently. At the head, on a small 
table with a little lamp, stood an image of a brooding 
figure, three feet high perhaps, fashioned rather 
roughly but incisively in clay. Father Borromeo 
stopped before it and began to speak eagerly. ” The 
image of our patron,” he said, ” St. Jeremias. Wonder- 
ful, don’t you think ? See how he looks down as if 
he could see the ruined Jerusalem at his feet and is 
making his lament over her. Yes, and he does see 
ruined Jerusalem, Mr. Merton. ' How doth the city 
sit sohtary that was full of people ! How is she become 
as a widow ! The ways of Zion do mourn because 
none come to the solemn feasts : all her gates are 

desolate The Lord hath cast off His altar. He 

hath abhorred His sanctuary. He hath given up into 




THE ACTS OP THE HOLY APOSTLES 

179 


the hand of the enemy the walls of her palaces .... 
Her gates are sunk into the ground ; he hath destroyed 
and broken her bars ; her king and her princes are 
among the Gentiles ; the law is no more ; her prophets 
also find no vision from the Lord.’ Is it not so, Mr. 
Merton ? Look at the desolate altars in this land ! 
See the days of the Lord’s feasts unknown, unhonoured ! 
And ‘ the law is no more ! ’ Therefore God has called 
me to make Reparation — and I will, till ‘ the punish- 
ment of thine iniquity is accomplished, O daughter of 
Zion.’ ‘ I am the man that hath seen affliction by the 

rod of His wrath,’ Mr. Merton Yes, and so Jeremias 

is our patron. God had told me to found this 
Order, but I did not know where or how or under whose 
protection. So I prayed, and slept. And in the 
morning there was a letter, and I saw that God had 
heard me. You know Sir Francis Scott, Mr. Merton ? 
Well, he had given a friend of mine an image of 
St. Jeremias fashioned after an idea which came to him 
as he heard the Lamentations read in church. 
He had made it, and given it to my friend, who was 
struck with the thought that I might like it — though 
he did not know why — so that it was God who sent 
it me after I had prayed and slept. So we have an image 
of oui patron by one of the greatest of living sculptors ; 
we who could not have bought one a hundredth part 
as good ! Our miraculous image, I call it, Mr. Merton. 
Don’t you think so ? See how he broods over the 
desolate altars, and prays too. ‘ Turn us again, O Lord, 
God of Hosts, and we shall be turned ’ — But I am 
keeping you ; will you come to your room, Mr. 
Merton ?” 

Leonard had said no word while the old man, his 
fiery old eyes blazing as at Oxford, and his thin hand 
gesticulating, had poured out his confused story, and 
now he followed him, still without a word. They turned 


180 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


down a passage with one or two big gloomy pictures 
on the walls (of which he was to know more later), 
and at the end his guide opened a door and he passed 
in. I hope you will find all you need here, Mr. 
Merton,'' he said courteously. If not, please ask for 
anything. And I will leave you now. Supper will 
be ready in about half an hour; you will hear a bell." 

Leonard walked to the window the moment the door 
was shut and looked out. His room was in the front 
of the house, and he could see down into the unkempt 
garden. In the fading light the black cross bourgeoned 
out over the gate against the glow of the setting sun, 
golden and clear and bright. He stood and watched 
a little, and then turned back to look about him. He 
was still chiefly curious, and a little amused. The room 
itself was absolutely modern — high, light, spacious and 
spotlessly clean ; but it was the furniture that amazed 
him. There was no carpet, and the walls were white- 
washed. In the middle stood a plain, unvarnished 
kitchen table with a penny bottle of ink, some paper, 
and a cheap wooden pen. Against the wall was an old 
packing case, scrubbed till it was white, bearing a 
few toilet necessities in tinware. The bed was of the 
barest iron, spread with blankets and a pillow, but with 
no sheets. A prie-dieu, obviously home-made, stood 
against one wall, with a Bible open upon it; and that, with 
one wooden chair of the kitchen variety, completed the 
furniture, except for the pictures and an image. This 
latter stood on the mantelpiece and Leonard contem- 
plated it with growing disgust. Yet it held his gaze, so 
that in a while he sat on the bed to see it better. It was 
about two feet high, highly coloured, and old, of 
Spanish-American sixteenth-century art, and it repre- 
sented our Lord at the Pillar. The hair of the head 
was real, and the figure hung from the hands as if half 
dead. The scourges had opened the flesh of the back 


THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 181 


and sides, and the ribs showed through.... ‘‘How 
ghastly,'* murmured Leonard, and went to his bed as I 
have said ; and then — “ But I suppose it was like 
that. . . .^^ 

There were three pictures in addition to the image. One, 
a Crucifixion, over his head, struck him as so horribly 
realistic that he never really learned to look at it, and 
the other two represented martyrdoms. In the first, a 
Jesuit priest suffered decapitation at the hands of 
Indians ; in the other, Romans dressed as Spaniards 
were torturing the breasts of St. Agatha. . . . He 
went over and poured out water and bathed his face 
and hands. Well, and then the bell rang and he went 
down to supper. 

Father Borromeo met him in the hall with a 
smile and ushered him at once into the refectory. 
There awaited him Brother John and two others, 
priests. Standing at the table Father Borromeo 
signed himself and intoned an antiphon, upon which, 
chanting a psalm, all five of them marched through 
a connecting door into the chapel for prayers, and 
so returned to supper. (Leonard preceded the Father 
and found he had a prie-dieu prepared for him in the 
chapel.) They sat down, and Brother John went for 
the food. Before each was an enamelled mug and 
plate, and a common knife, fork and spoon. The 
others ate bread and drank tea ; Leonard was presented 
with a chop and some potatoes. Then all had rice- 
pudding, all except the father, that is. There was 
butter offered to Leonard, who took of it, but never 
again. He presumed it had waited for him since the 
last visitor. There was silence till all had finished, 
and in the silence Leonard struggled with his food 
and looked about him. The furniture was entirely 
plain, and there was nothing except the absolutely 
necessary, with one exception. That stood at Leonard's 


182 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


left hand against the wall, and he did not notice it 
at first, since he was occupied with a crucifix on the 
mantelpiece as realistic as the scourging in his own 
room, and with two or three martyrdoms of the same 
period. But when he did, he nearly started to his 
feet. The exception was a glass-topped case of plain 
wood, such as one would see in a museum, and in 
it lay the body of a man, naked except for a loin-cloth, 
entire except for one arm, and incorrupt. It lay like 
white wax, still and calm, and the face seemed to 
smile. In a sense there was nothing repulsive, but 
something rather attractive, about it ; but in such a 

place, at such a time ! Father Borromeo noticed 

his start, and when grace had been said (with the 
same procession to the chapel) and they had seated 
themselves for the time which their rule allowed for 
recreation, he explained. 

'' I saw you noticed the body of our saint, Mr. 
Merton,'" he said, '' and I do not wonder. He is 
incorrupt, you see, and smiles. He is Father Juan 
Rodriguez, who was mart5n:ed in the Argentine in 
1584, I think. He was a very saint, and converted 
thousands to our Lord, but the Indians killed him 
with the slow thrust of an arrow ; look, you can see 
the wound in his side. You must hear his story 
some time. I found him at Notre Dame de Seccours 
in the Argentine, buried under the floor of the refec- 
tory, and I brought him away with me. The arm 
is in Rome, and we await his Beatification. But we 
are sure of it ; his relics and his intercessions have 
worked many miracles, Mr. Merton. I saw a blind 
woman cured, the day I found him, by the touch of a 
handkerchief that lay on his body, and many followed. 
It is always so with a saint, Mr. Merton. Do you 
remember : ‘ God wrought miracles by the hand 

of Paul, so that from his body were brought unto the 


THE ACTS OP THE HOLY APOSTLES 183 


sick, handkerchiefs or aprons, and the diseases departed 
from them ’ ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Leonard feebly ; and then : “ but how 
did you know the body was there ? ” 

“ He came to me in a dream of the night and told 
me to dig there, Mr. Merton. Ah ! but God was with 
us in that city. We baptized seventeen hundred in 
one week, I remember. They cried out to be saved : 
the whole city seemed to come together. It is a 
holy country. Why, when I left, they asked me for 
relics, and I gathered a handful of the dust of the 
road for them. ‘ God is here, my children,’ I said, 
‘ this is your relic ; it is holy land.’ ” 

“ But if you baptized so many, did they not fall 
away, father ? ” asked Leonard. 

“ Fall away ! ” cried the old man. “ No ! — ^by the 
Grace of God and the power of the sacraments. Why, 
it was there that God gave us another saint, I am sure, 
though I do not think we shall ever hear of her. She 
was a young widow, and she had a little house and 
a poor garden near the church. She lived by selling 
what vegetables she could raise, but when she was 
converted, she asked to be allowed to keep the altar 
in flowers, and for that gave up more and more of 
her poor garden. She was told she could not spare 
the space to grow flowers ; but what do you think 
God did, Mr. Merton ? He made that poor, stony 
strip of ground into a Paradise. Such roses, lilies, 
orchids — you never saw ! People used to come miles 
to see that garden, and all around it was as poor 
and as bare as before. Her vegetables, too — a miracle ! 
On half the space she grew ten times what she had 
grown before. Why, she could have been rich, for her ; 
but she lived poorly till the end, and gave all the 
rest to others worse off than she. I have seen her 
face as the face of an angel, at the altar where she 



184 

THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 



fed daily, Mr. Merton. And when she died — cancer, 
but she never ceased to praise our Lord and His 
Mother — her grave blossomed with lilies that bloom 
to this day. ' Such honour have all His saints.' . . . 
But we rest early here. Mass is at six. May I show 
you to your room ? " 

They shook hands at his door, and within, Leonard 
stood bewildered for a little. I must say I should 
like to have seen him. Then he went over to his 
suit-case, and searched for some chocolate and biscuits, 
congratulating himself on his forethought. 

II 

Merton has never given me a complete account of 
his six days — for he stayed from Monday till Saturday, 
although that first night he had decided to leave on 
the Wednesday — but it is possible to piece the story 
together more or less. The next day, for instance, 
he became acquainted with the house ; and the effect, 
on the whole, although so overwhelmingly unusual and 
— if I may say so — grotesque, was to stagger him out 
of his first repugnance as of something unreal and 
theatrical. It was overdone, if that had been meant ; 
besides, in the chapel that second night a chance inci- 
dent destroyed for ever any such conception. It appears 
that he found they had night-prayers after an hour 
of silence each evening which followed the recreation 
after supper, and he asked to be allowed to go. He 
had no book, of course, so Brother John passed him 
his. Idly he had glanced at the title-page, and there 
read : 

John Valentine Debenham, 

and beneath, a series of dates, which showed that 
the boy was really the same age as himself, and had 
been professed a year ago. Leonard glanced at him, and 




THE ACTS OP THE HOLY APOSTLES 

185 


then something of the meaning of it — little as he knew 
the reality — dawned on him. At twenty committed 
to a life like this ! And the face, unconscious of his 
watching, was gazing towards the Tabernacle with a 
smile on the lips and a light in the eyes which sent 
Leonard back to his own business with a lump in his 
throat. . . . 

The house, then, had neither carpet nor china nor 
comfort from hall to attic. There was no utensil not of 
tinware ; and never a picture other than an extraordinary 
number — over eighty in all — of similar pictures to those 
in his room, valuable in their way, he guessed, and 
pictures which had been dug from hiding-places and 
given to the father by his Indian Catholics. The 
crucifixes and images, too, were all as he had seen in 
the refectory and in his bedroom. Then he had 
discovered that no one at any time took meat — only 
bread (hard as a bullet, said Leonard), tea, sometimes 
a little rice and tapioca and such like, and an occasional 
egg. As to Father Borromeo, it staggered Leonard 
that he ate practically nothing ; a little bread and water 
m the morning, no lunch (dinner they called it), and a 
little bread and tea for supper, that had been his menu 
that day. Leonard had even wondered if he ate 
secretly, but twelve hours had been enough to dispel 
any such illusion. 

He had seen, too, where the father slept, and how, and 
that by chance. On going to his room after lunch, 
the father had asked another priest. Father Mark, to 
fetch for his visitor a copy of a compendium of scrip- 
ture texts which he had made, and Merton had accom- 
panied this priest for it to Father Borromeo's room. 
He had come out in a state of complete revolt. The 
room was perhaps eight feet by nine, an attic, and it was 
painted a dead black. The '' bed was a long, narrow, 

N 


186 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


black box, with one blanket to spread over its occupant 
and no mattress at all. Nor was there any other 
turniture, except a crucifix and a shelf of the books of 
which he had been given one. The old man of over 
seventy washed, in all weathers, at a tap in the yard 
beneath a lean-to of zinc, like the rest. Only one other 
object in the room had struck his eye, and that he 
recalled almost with a shudder. It was a small whip 
of wire and string, and the string was red. . . . 

The chapel completed his amazement. It was quite 
small, pictureless, except for a small Mexican repre- 
sentation in one piece of the Stations of the Cross, our 
Lord starting from Pilate's Hall in one corner and 
travelling, in fourteen little scenes, along a winding 
road which ended in the opposite corner at the 
Sepulchre. 

His prie-dieu was just before it, and he used to kneel 
and stare at it. Curiously enough, his thought was the 
utterly commonplace one that what it represented 
had really happened. It was as if he had never 
realised that before. 

The altar occupied one side. It was compacted of a 
number of rough stones, unhewn, of varying shapes, a 
curious jumble. But all were lettered, and he learned 
that each stone had come from a desecrated church, 
many being from old English monastery churches, 
although most countries were represented. The crucifix 
was another of the Spanish- American things, only much 
bigger ; to the end he could scarcely contemplate it. 
Hung from the ceiling was a broken three-legged rush 
chair, much the worse for wear, strung up to keep it 
out of the way, with no attempt at concealment. He 
asked about that. Why," said the father, tears in his 
eyes, that will be a relic one of these days. Do you 
know who sat in that chair ? " (His voice sank to a 


THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 187 


whisper and he gripped his guest by the arm.) The 
Blessed Cure d' Ays, and I keep it till he is canonized. 
He sat in that to hear confessions, the saint of God, 
aye, sat day and night upheld by the love of God and 
the prayers of our Lady, that he might save the soul 
of France. . . . And God save it too,'* he added 
brokenly. 

But with it all, the courtesy and kindness of the old 
man and of the rest gripped Leonard like a spell. For 
instance the father asked suddenly at lunch, as if remem- 
bering a forgotten thing, if he liked marmalade, and at 
supper a jar stood by him. Then he had planned walks 
for his guest to a wood near, to a ruined abbey, to the 
town, and some books had appeared mysteriously on 
Leonard's table because he had chanced to say how much 
he liked to read at night. And they had walked up and 
down the drive, he and the old man together who was 
too weak to go far, and Leonard had been more 
bewildered than ever at his talk. First, he could speak 
of nothing at all but of the love of God ; it was plain 
that no other subject existed for him. Then he had 
talked of his work and of his converts, with a simplicity 
and an affection and yet with an utter self-effacement 
that seemed to Leonard the most beautiful thing that 
he had ever heard, and mingled with it had been a 
humour and a commonsense that dumbfounded him, 
the more because, with it all, was interwoven a thread 
of the supernatural utterly beyond his hearer. Of 
course, you could discount it all. The old man gave 
no proofs — never, indeed, seemed to conceive that his 
visitor would want them, and never narrated a wonder 
as anything but the simplest and most natural of the 
works of God. Leonard was conscious that his evidence 
was worth nothing, and yet that, given the miracle of the 
man himself, there was no evidence wanted more. He 


188 TIIE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


lived solely and only for God ; the scourge, the fasting, 
the poverty — fantastic if you like — was prompted solely 
by a sense of sin in the world and in himself ; and the 
hours that slipped so strangely and quickly away were 
spent in a labour of prayer which could not be denied, 
whether it were misspent or not. 

Merton used to watch the old man like a person 
fascinated. He would kneel in chapel, his eyes wide 
open, his lips moving rapidly, his face rapt, his soul 
indifferent to time and space, and Merton would 
remember the tireless journeys, the complete self- 
surrender, the utter abandonment that had seamed and 
aged him. Or he would meet him in the corridor, the 
old father’s face abstracted as always, until he would 
suddenly be aware of his guest, and would come back 
as from a far country, but with a ready and immediate 
courtesy which was very beautiful to see. Or he would 
sit at the table in the recreation hour, the candle-light 
flickering on that dreadful crucifix and that still, white 
form of the saint, and lighting momentarily, as it danced, 
the darker corners and the shaded faces of the others, 
and his expression would be live and eager as a young 
man’s as he told what God had done before his eyes in 
that far-off world. The tales would be so human too — ■ 
now humorous, with the human mixed with this 
amazing faith ; now simple ; now blackly, evilly tragic. 

There was the Story of the Pill. '' Yes,” said the old 
father, we left Peru, Mr. Merton, despite all their warn- 
ing and struck away for the Amazon and Brazil. The 
porters abandoned us at last, and we went on from tribe 
to tribe, I and my boy, with next to no luggage, preaching 
as we went. The people got more and more savage as we 
advanced, and each tribe warned us of the next and 
expressed astonishment that we had got through the 
last — ^which is human nature, Mr. Merton, the world 


THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 189 


over. Were you not afraid, father ? '' interrupted 
Merton. ''Afraid? no, why should we have been? 
God was with us,'' came the simple answer.) Well, 
at last we did jump into the fire though. We came to a 
village unusually silent, and we found that the chief's 
son, a lad of fifteen or so, was dying. But the chief 
brightened up when he saw us. We were straightway 
stripped of our goods and taken before him — a fat old 
savage with his men about him, but somehow I believed 
that he was really in grief about his son, and I even liked 
him then. He explained at once that he had tried 
goats, chickens, a bull, even a woman, by way of sacrifice 
to avert the evil, but that the gods had evidently sent 
us along. So we should die in the morning, and the 
doctor would make a medicine of our kidneys which 
would cure the boy. We looked on death then, Mr. 
Merton. So I said. Yes, he should kill us in the morning, 
but might I preach to them that afternoon, first ? He 
said that that was a fair arrangement ; so I begged the 
help of our Lady and St. Ignatius Loyola, and began. 
They did not object to a long sermon, so I told them the 
story of our Lord from the beginning." 

Merton had a mental picture of the amazing scene ; 
had it really taken place in the nineteenth century ? 
He conjured up the green encircling forest of giant trees 
and creepers, the open space by the slow-moving river, 
the hum of brilliant insects, the background of brown 
huts, the listening savage and his circle of armed men, and 
the bearded priest in his torn cassock and uplifted cross 
preaching the story of Jesus and His love. He seemed 
to see it all in the keen eyes that looked into his. 

" Well, Mr. Merton, I had just finished the raising of 
the widow's son at Nain (which was one of the miracles 
I put in) when the chief interrupted me. 

" ' Where is that Jesus now ? ' he asked. 


190 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


' In Heaven, in the Sacrament of the altar in every 
church, and here,' said 1. 

‘‘ ' Here ? ' he repeated. 

‘ Yes,' said I, ' by my side and by yours, reading your 
heart, is the spiritual presence of Jesus Christ our 
God, according to His words : Lo, I am with you 
alway, even unto the end." ' 

The old chief glanced about uneasily : then he laughed. 
‘ Good,' said he, ‘ then if He is here, let Him cure my 
son.' 

“ For a moment, Mr. Merton, I was silent, but then 
God told me what to do. ‘ Show me the boy,' I said, and 
they brought him. Now, Mr. Merton, I had no medicines, 
only a box of calomel pills, with but one left, and I did 
not know what was the matter with the boy at all. 
But I committed him and myself to Almighty God and 
our Blessed Lady, and I gave him the pill. Then we 
slept. He was well in the morning, by the power of 
God, and I baptized the whole village before I left." 

But it was on his guest's last evening that he related 
the story of the great horror. Leonard Merton had been 
told in Oxford that Father Borromeo had ‘ strange fancies ' 
about the Devil and his works, but that, since he believed 
so deeply in the truth of what he thought he had seen, 
he could rarely be got to speak on the subject. So 
Leonard tried hard that night. The old man had been 
much moved, telling how his poor Indian converts had 
dug up the pictures and images in their houses — treasures 
long buried for fear of your modern republican South 
American — and had given them to him, in lavish 
generosity, for his new ‘Anathoth'; of how they had added, 
in all, the equivalent of twenty thousand pounds sterling 
for the conversion of Protestant England ; of how he had 
translated the Scriptures into the vernacular for them, 
and distributed three editions of 25,000 copies each ; 


THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 191 


of how he had met with fierce opposition and abuse from 
the coast cities, and particularly from the German 
element ; and of how — told with a simple acceptance of 
diabolical agencies — he had fought with devils and 
beasts in the gambling hells and dancing saloons of San 
Francisco. Leonard drew out the story from that. 

It opened ramblingly with an account of his early 
voyages, and of how this had occurred on the second 
in company with a number of German and German-Jew 
emigrants ; and Leonard had allowed his attention to 
wander to the faces about him and the strange room, 
particularly to the young priest — the younger of the 
two — ^who chanced to be opposite to him, whose grey 
eyes, lit with horror, never left the old man, and whose 
hand moved rapidly in the sign of the cross when- 
ever the father spoke of the Devil. He was recalled by 
the old man's words. 

In those days, Mr. Merton, the quarantine station 
was the island of Flores, a small sandy place in the mouth 
of the river, and there was nothing there but a desecrated 
chapel (there is a stone on the altar still), a dilapidated 
hospital, and the shanties for persons quarantined. 
So we were put there. I got a room to myself, but our 
passengers got drunk at dinner, and some of the men came 
round to abuse me with their wantons on their arms. 
I tried to pray in silence within for a little, but they 
hammered on the door, and at last I went out to see. 
The moon was up, Mr. Merton, and in its light lay bathed 
the bare island with its few twisted trees, the still sea, 
and their hot, lustful faces. It seemed God had spread 
His peace abroad on nature, but that the devil rioted in 
men. Away on the north beach was the old chapel, its 
broken windows showing black and empty in the moon. 
So I came out to them, and they cursed me and sought a 
quarrel, but when I could, I spoke to them in the Name 


192 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


of God. Then one blasphemed the honour of God’s 
Mother, and I cried in my youth : ' O God, show them the 
horror of hell that they may be saved ! ’ The man who 
had spoken — a German- Jew — cleaned forward and struck 
me in the face, crying : ‘ Damn your — God ; there is no 
hell ! ’ And I answered him, lifting my hand, ‘ The 
mouth of hell shall open upon you, unless you repent ! ’ 

''For a moment or two, Mr. Merton, that silenced 
them, but at last one cried: ' Come away! Wine 
and women are better than this fool.’ And they 
all took up his cry, streaming off with ribald 
songs. And then I saw, to my horror, as I stood in 
the door with blood on my face, that they v/ere going 
to the chapel to fulfil their lust there. I tried to cry 
out to them, but even as I tried, the words died in 
my throat, because I saw a light in the chapelJ' 

The old man leant forward, and Leonard, overcome 
in spite of himself as much by his manner as his 
words, glanced round fearfully. Brother John was on 
his knees with his beads ; the priest opposite, white 
as the body of the saint. So it was he who whispered 
in the stillness of the room : "Yes, father ? ” 

" Well, as I looked, the light grew and grew — a 
lurid red light. One of the women saw it at last, and 
screamed out at it. They were near then, perhaps 
fifty yards away. But even as they hesitated, one 
man, with a curse, called them all to come, as he 
would like to see the Devil. And then — then — the 
light burned higher (it was as if there was a fire within 
the chapel), and with a yell such as I pray God I 
may never hear again, the Devil leaped out upon 
them. 

" They fled, naked and wounded,” went on the old 
man as if he saw it all again, and there was no interrupt- 
ing him for an explanation, " and I thank God I had 


THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 193 


the courage to go out with my crucifix and bring in 
him who had wished to see the Devil and his woman, 
who lay on the sand. I took them into the hospital, 
and I made holy water, and I prayed by them 
while they raved — oh, my God, how they raved ! 
Oh, my children, but that was a night ! Never have 
I seen such a night ! All the time the chapel flamed 
and was not burnt, and the island resounded with 
the cries of the damned and the yells of the Devil. 
They even heard the noise in the town, and came 
off in a boat in the morning, when they dared, to 
ask us of it. But as for me, I prayed and prayed. 
The Devil himself tried to enter the hospital — 
every one had taken refuge there then — but I 
confessed and shrived them all, and then we told 
our beads — all, that is, but those that held the 
door and the two on the beds. All night through 
those two saw Hell opened before them. The 
Devil even clawed on the door to reach them, but 
he could not pass the crucifix, and with the dawn, 
God stretched out His Hand, and the gate of Hell 
was shut again. But in the morning light, when we 
opened the door, it was scored as with red-hot fingers 
from lintel to floor.'' 

‘‘ Oh, my God ! " burst from the young priest ; 

and what then, father ? " 

Except for the two, who died that day, God gave 
me all the souls in the place, my son. And we cleaned 
the chapel and did penance in it, and restored it as 
best we could, and at last I said Mass there. Our 
quarantine was a fourteen-days' retreat, through the 
mercy of God. But we had seen the mouth of Hell 
opened upon us, and the Devil had taken two to 
himself." 

Back in his room, Leonard could not sleep. I 


194 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


believe, truth to tell, that he was afraid. He drew 
every modern weapon from his armoury and used 
them, but he fell back on his New Testament at last. 
That was cold comfort, however. Your adversary 
the Devil goeth about as a roaring lion seeking whom 
he may devour,'" he read ; and In My Name ye 
shall cast out devils." Curiously enough, however, 
one other verse was even more disturbing, a verse 
that really seems far from the subject : How hardly 
shall they that have riches enter into the Kingdom 
of Heaven." 

Ill 

There was no doubt about it, Leonard Merton was 
sorry to go next morning. As he dressed for the last 
Mass, he was amazed to realise that he had not touched 
his chocolate or biscuits for four days, and had not 
wanted them, and that a novel in his gladstone, which 
he had read half through the first day, was still 
unfinished. Also he was looking forward to Mass 
and breakfast more than the lunch in town he had 
planned for himself, which was the more amazing the 
more he thought of it. 

Breakfast was, indeed, a sad meal. Just at the 
end, the old priest forgot himself for the first time, 
and, leaning over suddenly, burst out irrelevantly : 

But Mr. Merton, it's so plain ! Our Lord said : 
' Thou art Peter, and upon this rock ' — fetros, petra, 
you know — ' I will build my church.' And Peter did 
go to Rome, and our Lord has built His church upon 
him, and it is a rock. Can't you see ? Why are you 
not a Catholic ? " Merton gazed at him hopelessly — 
how could one argue with Father Borromeo ? — and 
said helplessly : Yes, father." And the young 


THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 196 


priest looked up suddenly, and then down again ; 
and so they finished. 

Brother John had carried his luggage to the station, 
as ragged and smiling as ever, and Father Mark was 
to walk with him there. They set out through that 
amazing gate which Leonard had somehow come to 
welcome as he came back from his walks, and Father 
Borromeo hardly spoke as they shook hands. He 
stood there in his greenish-black old cassock in the 
sun as they went down the lane, and waved pleasantly 
as they turned. Then Leonard and Father Mark 
went on for a little in silence. 

“ He is a wonderful man,” said Leonard at length. 

“Yes,” said Father Mark, “ and I thank God that 
I am with him. 

“ Will he go back to America, do you think, father ? ” 
asked Leonard. 

“ Oh, no,” said the priest. “ He is dying ; the 
doctors only give him a year or two to live. But they 
say he may die sooner. He will die when God pleases,” 
he added. 

“ Oh,” said Leonard, and they walked another 
quarter of a mile. “ Are there many of you ? ” asked 
Leonard at length. 

“ Not here,” said Father Mark, “ but we have 
several other houses in South America. Here there 
are only Father Francis and Brother John in addition 
to myself and Father Borromeo.” 

“ And have you been here long ? ” 

“ Since Father Borromeo began, a couple of years 
ago, but I was professed in South America soon after 
I went out. Father Francis joined us last year ; 
Brother John two years ago. He came from the 
novitiate of another Order ; he was professed by 
special dispensation last year. Brother John will be 


196 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


a great monk, if God pleases ; he has such a definite 
sense of vocation, and has had from his boyhood. I 
do not know how we should get on without him.'' 

'' He looks after the garden and kitchen, doesn't 
he? " 

Yes ; he is our only lay-brother here, though 
two more are coming. He will be ordained soon; 
indeed he gets sub-deacon's orders at Advent, I 
believe." 

'' Debenham his name was, wasn't it ? I saw it in 
his prayer-book." 

‘‘ Yes," said Father Mark. 

Debenham," repeated Leonard. "'Is he any 
relation of the Orfords ? It's their name." 

Yes," said Father Mark quietly ; he is the eldest 
son." 

“ The eldest son of the Earl of Orford ! " cried 
Leonard in amazement, stopping short. 

‘‘ Yes," said Father Mark again, looking at him. 

‘‘ But then he is a peer ! " cried Leonard. 

Yes," said Father Mark, or at least he was ; 
he gave up all title and place on his profession ; as far 
as could be of course." 

But," stammered Leonard, a Viscount, and 
heir to the Orford estates ! What does his father say ? " 

The Earl is a Catholic," said Father Mark quietly. 

But. . ." began Leonard again, and was silent. 

They waUced on down the country lane, and Merton 
looked at the hedges and the sunshine in a kind of dream. 
He was thinking what it would be like to be the eldest 
son of an earl, and then of that bare house, of the 
dry bread, of the scourge, of the years ahead .... 
He saw again, against the beauty of the English 
summer, that devout face in the chapel, that white 
set face over the beads. 




THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 

197 


But Father Mark was speaking. “ We had the 
honour of a visit from the Cardinal Archbishop, last 
month,” he said, “ and he definitely approved Father 
Borromeo’s work. He will ordain Brother John 
himself. I think,” he added half humorously, “ that 
Father Borromeo rather feared his coming as His 
Eminence is an exceedingly practical man. But 
he approved all we do, and he asked for Father 
Borromeo’s blessing before he left. Father Borromeo 
gave him a Madonna for his chapel, one given him 
by a poor Indian who was flogged to death in the 
ruins of his house not long after, and the Cardinal 
said he should value it as highly as anything he had. 
Have you seen the Cathedral, Mr. Merton ? It is not 
finished, of course, but it will be a fine building. Some 
people say. ... ” But Leonard heard no more. 

“ Does he never eat more than that ? ” asked 
Leonard suddenly. 

” I beg your pardon, Mr. Merton ? ” said the priest, 
surprised. 

“ Oh, I beg yours, father,” said Merton in some 
confusion. “ I was thinking of Father Borromeo. . . . 
I am sorry. But, father, why do you all do that ? ” 

The priest looked at him gravely for a minute, and 
then he said : “I will explain if I can, Mr. Merton, 
but it may sound a little strange to you. You see, 
our Lord’s mystical Body of the Catholic Church is 
spread throughout the whole world, and everywhere, 
and in every age, our Lord carries on through it, all 
that He did on earth. So He lives in humble homes. 
He heals the sick. He preaches to the poor. He offers 
Himself on Catholic altars — He is always in Nazareth, 
about Galilee and on Calvary again. And He is in 
Gethsemane too. I mean, some members of His 
mystical Body are called to live by prayer of a kind 


198 THE DRIFT OF PINIONS 


that means no less than a veritable sweat of blood, 
and that because our Lord may then have to offer, 
as He once offered on the Cross, all that labour of 
prayer and pain on behalf of sinners and His enemies — 
Judas, Peter, Pilate, the Jews. In the Catholic Church 
there are Orders which accept that vocation of repara- 
tion and live for it always. Such is Father Borromeo’s. 
We make reparation especially for insults offered to 
our Lord in the Sacrament of the Altar."' 

Leonard glanced at the quiet face of the priest 
beside him, and could not resist a vulgarity which he 
regretted the next moment. And so you all use the 
discipline, and let your bread get stale ? " he said. 

Yes," said Father Mark quietly and simply ; and 
Leonard was ashamed. 

They said no more till they reached the station, 
and as Leonard leant from his window he asked what 
he had never asked before. Pray for me, father," 
he said, in some confusion. • 

'' Why, yes," said the priest again, imperturbably. 

Leonard threw himself back in a corner and watched 
the world slide by outside. He had not seen a paper 
for a week, and several lay beside him, but he did not 
open them. He scarcely moved till the express ran 
into King's Cross, and a porter flung open the door. 

Taxi, sir ? " 

‘"Yes," said Leonard, and climbed out into the 
common-sense, of London. 


All this was some time ago now, and Merton rarely 
speaks of it. Indeed I would not write it down, if it 
were not that he never reads anything I write, on 
principle, and nobody else will recognise him. Not 
that we are anything but the best of friends, and I 


THE ACTS OF THE HOLY APOSTLES 199 


must say I delight in a week now and again within 
the precincts of the cathedral of which he is an orna- 
ment. His wife is delightful, and they keep an admir- 
able table. Besides, there is a certain air about the 
establishment, from the butler downwards, of dignified 
yet cheerful Conservative Anglicanism that is really 
rather restful. Merton subscribes largely to missionary 
societies, too, and he has even appeared on the platform 
of the Christian Social Union. But, as I say, he 
rarely speaks of Father Borromeo, and I know why. 
You see, if the Acts of the Apostles were really lived 
over again, it would turn the world upside down once 
more, which would be extraordinarily disagreeable 
to most of us. Fancy meeting St. Paul ! Fancy having 
met him, or his like, if only for the inside of a 
week .... 



•• 

^r 


\ 


i « 

, ) 






